iilM 




POEMS. 



^^ofl 



GEORGE ALFRED TOWNSEND. 



5^ 



'jo^o 




/ 

WASHINGTON, D. C. : 
RHODES AND RALPH. 

1870. 






Entered according to Act of Congress, in tlie year ISO!), by 

GEORGE ALFRED TOWNSEND, 

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Dis- 
trict of Columbia. 



Rockwell & Churchill, Printers, 
122 Washington St., Boston. 



N>> 



A S D 

T H K IVI E AI O R, Y 
or 

3^oa?I3::H]I^. 



CONTENTS. 



FAGB 

The First Hunger 7 

The Ride from Five Forks 10 

The Jew 14 

Baby at Sea 16 

Father Marquette 18 

Sleighing Song 20 

The Widow 22 

Margaret Van Eyck 25 

The Pigeon Girl 27 

To Victor Hugo 30 

A Face in La Boheme 31 

Gondoliers' Song 33 

Searching for the Pole ........ 35 

Czech 37 

Missouri River 38 

Savonarola ........... 39 

The Dream of Malthus 41 

Chester River 44 

The Duke's Daughter 46 

Mother 61 

The Exceeding High Mountain 63 

Stecrforth 66 

The Circuit Preacher . . .58 

Kishicoquillas .......... 63 

Joan of Arc 65 

Princess Troubetzkoi 69 



VI CONTENTS. 

Michie's Farm 71 

Pittsburg 73 

Venus de Milo .... * 75 

Country Christmas * . . .77 

Camp Christmas 79 

Roanoke ........... 81 

Little Grisette 85 

The Volunteer's Wife 88 

Wild-Cat Junction 92 

Paul on the Hellespont 97 

The Great Baptism 99 

Ships of the Aztecs 105 

The Clock in the Capitol 110 

Onondaga Castle 112 

Swedes and Finns 116 

Galileo's Recantation 121 

America the Hunter 123 

SalvatorRosa 125 

Never Let 126 

Born on Christmas 128 

Miracle of the Gargoyles . . 130 

Poe 136 

The Strasbourg Stork — A Proem 139 

The Duelling Ground at Bladensburg . . . . . . 142 

Bartholemew Close 144 

The Corniche Road 145 

American Autumn 150 

Buccaneer Books 153 

Garibaldi, Gaucho 156 

Baruch Spinosa 158 

My Rhymes 159 




POEMS. 



THE FIRST HUNGER. 



The apples are vrater, Dearest, 
The dates are only sweet, 

There is no flesh in the juice of the grape, 
Nor life in the berry we eat ; 

In the blood of the kid we have slain 
In our new and terrible greed. 
Lies the gristle and marrow we need, — 

In the pitiful yield of the grain : 

The barley that beards the wild rain. 
The corn that the crow contests, 
The milk in the white wheat's breasts, — 

Behold my red hands as I speak, 

And the curse of the sweat on my cheek ! 



POEMS. 

The garden was all before us 

AVhere reaches to-day a waste, 
Its plentiful clusters o'er us, 

Eternity in their taste ; 
I could lie in 3'our tresses, and reach 

In the roses, the flush of the South ; 

Power fell with the figs in my mouth, 
And youth in the bite of the peach ; 
I am weary, but still they beseech, — 

These sinews, that hunger and thirst 

In their famine the fiercest and first ; 
And thine eyes, where love's wishes I read. 
Look the eloquence only of — bread. 

No more shall the noons be luscious, 

The nights be tender strolls. 
Sweet sleep delightful hushes 

In the fond talk of our souls ; 
Yoked this stature, thou praised, to the clod, 

Farewell to the leisure so dear ! 

No more b}' the streams shall we hear 
The intimate thoughts of our God, 
But harrow our hearts with the sod, — 

Dismissed our high quests to the winds, 

And the infinite wish of our minds. 
And the beautiful dreams that we prize. 
Like the birds that forsake Paradise. 

I must seek so late thy kisses. 

So soon i\\y side discard. 
And my tenderest caresses 

Bestow with hands so hard. 



POEMS. 



It is not for my lot that I plead, 
Too proud at my burden to groan, 
Nor yet, O my wife, for thine own, 

But the races of men which succeed : 

The cannibal children of greed, 

Who fight at the bosom they crave, 
And walk from the cradle to slave. 

Till populous hunger shall shed 

The blood of its brethren for bread. 

The world from the sun slips farther, 
As we far from God's face ; 

There is war declared eternal 
'Twixt nature and our race. 

But it is not the end that we dread ; 
Fighting up to God's feet as we toil 
We shall trample this curse from the soil, 

And conquer the bondage of bread. 

Making Nature our slave in our stead, 
Till the frost shall say truce, and the rain 
Draw near, at the beck of the grain, 

And our sons, with the sheaves at their knee. 

Reach again of the fruit of the tree. 



10 POEMS. 



THE RIDE FROM FIVE FORKS 



Ho ! pon3\ Down the louely road 

Strike now your cheeriest pace ! 
The -woods on fire do not burn higher 

Than burns m^^ anxious face ; 
Far have you sped, but all this night 

Must feel my nervous spur ; 
If we be late, the world must wait 

The tidings we aver : — 
To home and hamlet, town and hearth, 

To thrill child, mother, man, 
I carry to the waiting North 

Great news from Sheridan ! 



The birds are dead among the pines. 

Slain by the battle fright, 
Prone in the road the steed reclines 

That never reached the fight ; 
Yet on we go, — the wreck below 

Of many a tumbled wain, — 
By ghastly pools where stranded mules 

Die, drinking of the rain. 
With but my list of killed and missed 

I spur my stumbling nag, 
To tell of death at many a trj'^st, 

But victor}" to the flag ! 



POEMS . 11 

" Halt ! who comes there? The countersign ! " — 

" A friend." — "Advance ! The fight, — 
How goes it, say ? " — " We won the day ! " — 

" Huzza ! Pass on ! " — " Good-night ! " — 
And parts the darkness on before, 

And down the mire we tramp, 
And the black sky is painted o'er 

With many a pulsing camp ; 
O'er stumps and ruts, by ruined huts, 

Where ghosts look through the gloam, — 
Behind my tread I hear the dead 

Follow the news toward home. 



The hunted souls I see behind, 

In swamp and in ravine, 
Whose cry of mercy thrills the wind 

Till cracks the sure carbine ; 
The moving lights which scare the dark, 

And show the trampled place 
Where, in his blood, some mother's bud 

Turns up his young, dead face ; 
The captives spent, whose standards rent 

The conqueror parades, 
As at the Five Forks roads arrive 

The General's dashing Aides. 



O wondrous Youth ! through this grand ruth 

Runs my boy's life its thread ; 
The General's fame, the battle's name. 

The rolls of maimed and dead 



12 POEMS. 

I bear, with my thrilled soul astir, 

And lonely thoughts and fears. 
And am but History's courier 

To bind the conquering years ; 
A battle-ra}^ through ages gray 

To light to deeds sublime, 
And flash the lustre of this day 

Down all the aisles of Time ! 



Ho ! pony, — 'tis the signal gun — 

The night-assault decreed ; 
On Petersburg the thunderbolts 

Crash from the lines of Meade ; 
Fade the pale, frightened stars o'erhead, 

And shrieks the bursting air ; 
The forest foliage, tinted red. 

Grows ghastlier in the glare ; 
Though in Her towers, reached Her last hours, 

Rocks proud Rebellion's crest — 
The world may sag, if but my nag 

Get in before the rest ! 



With bloody flank, and fetlocks dank, 

And goad, and lash, and shout — 
Great God ! as every hoof-beat falls 

A hundred lives beat out ! 
As weary as this broken steed 

Reels down the corduroys. 
So, weary, fight for morning light 

Our hot and grimy boys ; 



POEMS. 13 

Through ditches wet, o'er parapet 

And guns barbette, they catch 
The last, lost breach ; and I, — I reach 

The mail with my despatch ! 



Sure it shall speed, the land to read. 

As sped the happiest shell ; 
The shot I send strike the world's end ; 

This tells my pony's knell ; 
His long race run, the long war done, 

My occupation gone — 
Above his bier, prone on the pier, 

The vultures fleck the dawn. 
Still, rest his bones where soldiers dwell, 

Till tlie Long Roll they catch. 
He fell the day that Richmond fell, 

And took the first despatch ! 



14 POEMS. 



THE JEW. 

His dark face kindled in the East, 
He walks our Europe like a dream, 
And in his great beard gravely seem 

To meet the poet and the priest ; 

His nation spent, his temple sacked, 
A haughty exile, under ban, 

From pole to belt he holds intact 
The ancient grandeur of the man. 

Vain burnt the fires his faith to melt, — 

His tough will turned the rack to straw ; 

The granite tablets were his law, 
And to the one high God he knelt. 
Before his zeal fell hate and spite ; 

Wide grew the narrowness of marts, — 
Immortal, sole cosmopolite. 

He gave for freedom all the arts. 

Alway the ages' argonaut. 

The foremost sails he followed still. 

Gave to the Christian thrift and skill. 
And peace and trade to heathens taught. 
If ran to greed his soul sometimes, 

By reverend robbery wrung to pelf, — 
A child of genius in all climes. 

He drew the Muses to himself. 



POEMS. 15 

Of God's august historian heir, — 

Who made creation eloquent, — 

To themes occult and grand he bent 
The realm of letters ever3'where ; 
His pencil spurned, his marble crushed, 

When art to monks its lease resigned, 
The splendor of his numbers hushed 

The ruder music of mankind. 



Outlived all stain, and gibe, and scath, — 

Apart and proud he holds his life, — 
Fast in the promise of his faith 

As in the dark e3'es of his wife : 
Behold his fate the Jew reverse. 

At whose exchequer raonarchs stand, 
His foot on the almighty purse. 

The bonds of Empire in his hand ! 

Oh ! human faith in God's good grace, 

Wait boldl}^ and ye shall not fail. 

The patient ages must avail, 
If Freedom knows no waiting place. 
The Zion holy to our hosts, — 

This reverend world, — made ruin by 
The curse of shi-ines, and thrones, and ghosts, 

Art, toil, and hope shall purify ! 



1Q POEMS. 



BABY AT SEA. 

The newest soul abroad upon the ocean, 

A blood-drop in the sea, 
Deep in the driving steamer's rolling motion, 

None so reposed as she. 
Wrapped in her zephyrs all the visions sought her, 

As seek the gulls the folds 
Of the bright standard, trailing o'er the water. 

For the white star it holds. 

The ship's cat crept around her couch in wonder. 

As if some bird were there. 
Safe in the crash of billow and of thunder. 

In the great Captain's care. 
Far in the bows the sailors said together. 

As the black watch they scored : 
" I marvel not we get so tranquil weather, — 

A baby is on board." 

Sea giddy, while the bravest, sick of leisure, 

Saw the white caps, afraid. 
Rocked in the swells she smiled, as for her pleasure 

The waves such music made. 
The steamer gasped, as in some drowning throttle. 

And reeled in shaft and rod, — 
She manned her life boat, the nutritious bottle, 

And pulled to realms of Nod. 



POEMS. 17 

To her the place was but some land a-flyiug 

O'er a green sweep of boughs, 
"With cheery singing to their roar replying, 

With brooks, and fields, and cows ; 
Still in its homes folks talked, and walked, and wrestled, 

And slept life's cares away, 
So in the white arms of her mother nestled, 

She dreamed from prayer till day. 

Never again, perchance, she shall be treading 

The France where she was born. 
Not midst its vines, her girlhood or her wedding. 

But in the land of corn. 
Where her grandparents in the West are summing 

The days with doubts and fears. 
Child of their children, she shall yet be coming 

To gladden their old years. 

The deep shall leave upon this baby rover 

No note of its refrain, 
The great bass singer that has borne her over 

Shall rock her ship in vain. 
But in her life's devotion or defection. 

Shall haunt her dwelling-place 
His unremembered fatherly protection, 

Like a m3^sterious face. 

Still shine her eyes the larger and the bluer, 

More love her dimples say ; 
Her tiny soul, the fuller and the truer, 

Sails womanward each day. 

2 



18 POEMS. 

Dear God ! we pray both precious vessels may be 

In prosperous vo3^ages sung, 
And homeward go the steamer and the baby 

When all their bells are rung ! 



FATHER MARQUETTE. 

Non nobis, Domine ! alway 

To Thee, with hands a-quiver, 
The glory and the praise we pa}'-, 

Who givest France this river ! 
Of all her conquests, near or far, 

Most marvellous this still is. 
And here around the holy cross 

We plant the Bourbon lilies. 

Give joy, Joliet ! With pulses quick 

And thrilled in every fibre, 
I see the baffled heretic 

Forestalled in this new Tiber ; 
The PontiflTs palace halls are lit, 

And at his cannon's thunder, 
The daring of the Jesuit 

Shall make the monarchs wonder. 

God wot ! when we were village boys, 
With Laon's simple cotters, 

We thought the blue thread of the Oise 
The widest of the waters ; 



POEMS. 19 

Yet, where we launch this light canoe 

Shall sail a new Ulysses, 
And here the mighty masters hew 

Their grandest edifices. 

Vain now the Spaniard's past pretence, — 

Deeds make our claim more vital, — 
A hundred j-ears of indolence 

Is but a dead man's title. 
The Indian patriarch forgets 

His foray, vain and loneh^. 
All coming Frenchmen are Marquettes, 

'Twas one De Soto only. 

In vain the murdering Iroquois 

Wins Christendom's abhorrence ; 
Our foot is set at Mackinaw, 

Our stride the long St. Lawrence ; 
This world's highway obex's our wills, 

Our hand is on its fountains ; 
The music of our masses thrills 

The English on the mountains. 



Our forts shall bind these prairie swells, 

So vast and melancholy ; 
The tinkle of our sprinkled bells 

Shall make the forests holy ; 
And by the peopled river sides, 

The murmur of low aves 
Resistless as the ocean tides 

Shall drive our boundins: navies. 



20 POEMS. 

Shout ! ye Hurons, that to these shores 

Ye drew your clusk}'^ faces. 
Now open with your shining oars 

A path for all Christ's races ! 
If in His will to death or fire 

My body He deliver, 
I charge ye build my funeral pyre 

Beside this stately river. 



SLEIGHING SONG. 

The valley glows below the snows, 

Warm white between the hills, 
As my young sweetheart's neck escapes 
Up from her shapes of lacey crapes, 
And dimples as it thrills. 

Chorus- 

Sweetheart, lo ! the world is snow ; 
The bells say ' come,' and the heart says ' go ! * 
Fear not to be chilly by my side, my lilj', — 
Love glows warmest in the snow. 

My ' Cutter ' waits light at her gates ; 

Its ponies champ and neigh : 
To feel her foot upon their fur 
The dead wolves, for the touch of her, 

Almost bound back to Day ! 



POEMS. 21 

Our sleigh-bells speak as down the peak 

The ringing ices slide, 
Wide from her hairs the ribbon flies, 
Her colors rise ripe to her eyes. 

So swift, so hushed we ride. 

The streams are cold, the homes are old, 

The orchards gnarled and bare ; 
Of all the world I am most j^oung ; 
Of all unsung by tune or tongue, 

I feel she is most fair. 

The wild deer peer almost in fear, 

She is so straight, so chaste. 
The eagles scream down, where thej' hide. 
Despite her pride to see me glide 

My hand around her waist. 

The wolves' teeth grin upon the skin 

That clambers to her glove ; 
The carved swans on the dasher rear 
Their stately necks to feel her near. 

As Leda kindled Jove ! 

O bliss ! O glow ! there is no snow, — 

'Tis summer come anew. 
Her touch is like the harvest heats. 
Her breath its sweets ; there only beats 

One heart where there were two ! 

Chorus. 
Sweetheart, lo ! the world is snow ; 
The bells say ' come,' and the heart says ' go ; ' 
Fear not to be chilly by my side, my lily, — 
Love nestles closest in the snow ! 



22 POEMS. 



THE WIDOW. 

The crimson from the curtain died, 

And lived again amongst the coals ; 
In the half glimmer, side by side, 

A something stirred in their two sonls ; 
One great pearl lamp, deadfaced, swung. 

Fused into catacombs the books. 
And what grew dumb upon his tongue 

Grew eloquent in looks. 

Behind her cushioned stool he stooped ; 

His bearded shadows heaving float 
Where lie her ruffled laces, looped 

By one black brooch cold at her throat ; 
Gray in the mantel mirror gleams 

His manly presence, dark and tall, — 
How like and how unlike it seems : 

The portrait on the wall. 

The boyish portrait, anxious-e5'-ed. 

Where truant will, in sanguine guise. 
Shows self-distrust through headlong pride. 

And power too quick for sacrifice. 
He raged and played till life grew dim, 

With passion blest and fame untried. 
Art has no charity for him 

Whom love has satisfied ! 



POEMS. 23 

" Here where a man's j'outh tired, could glean 

A luxury as dear as power, 
And dream life out, — you else unseen, — 

Wed but to this refined bower. 
Dare I for cage and bird combined 

A lonely heart's desire express ? " — 
The echoes of his voice behind 

Half drowned her whispered " Yes." 

So strangclj^ knit rose his reply, 

Both thrill and sternness one might mark : 
" Your sweet consent comes like a cry 

Out j'onder in the autumn dark, 
From him who knelt where I but stand, 

And poured his music at j'our feet. 
Drew your girl's heart into his hand, 

To feel his boy's heart beat. 

" More jealous of your widow's tears 

Than you of all my passion's race, 
I bid 3'ou call 3'our maiden 5'ears, 

And set the two loves face to face : 
Beside the calm glow of m}^ claim. 

And husbandry of moods and cares. 
The fiery errors of his flame. 

His kiss to match your fears. 

" Lo ! at his stride night flushed to dawn ! 

His sins for genius 3'ou mistook. 
Mankind expired when he had gone. 

You loved his undeserved rebuke. 



24 POEMS. 

Your tearful feuds more solace bore 
Than on my breast, in perfect peace, 

I ask thee, now, to love once more ! " — 
" man," she murmured, " cease ! 

*' Not love like that to thee I gave 

Out of my human loneliness : 
My girlhood lies in yonder grave. 

'Twas only widowhood said ' Yes ! ' " — 
" Dear heart ! " he cried, " look well on me ! 

M3' brother's wife, forgive my whim ! 
I loved his frailties like to thee, 

And gave thee up to him ! 

" I loved thee first, apart, afar, 

And while love lingered on my lips, 
I saw thine eyes fixed on his star, 

And my star go into eclipse. 
Here where the echoes of his kiss 

Ring down the firelight where he stood, 
I give thee, sister, only this : 

The kiss of brotherhood ! " 



POEMS. 25 



MARGARET VAN EYCK, 

It Avas the Count of Demlcrmonde, 

On love's sweet mission bent, 
Who, flushing 'neath his waving plumes, 

Rode galloping to Ghent ; 
The voice plead soft that long and oft 

Had roused axe, sabre, pike ; 
The warrior wooed tlie painter-girl, — 

Fair Margaret Van Eyck. 

" Arise, Sir Count ! " the lady said, 

"With heightened hope and hue, 
" I am not fit so well to wed ; 

You are too brave to sue ; 
But I have vowed no man to plight. 

That I may keep my heart 
Where first it knelt and passion felt, — 

Before the shrine of Art ! " 



The brewer Bauens donned his wig 

And chafed his jewelled hands ; 
He was the richest citizen 

In all the Netherlands. 
" My ships are man}' on the Scheldt, 

M}' cattle on the dike. 
All shall be thine, when thou art mine. 

Sweet Margaret Van Eyck ! " 



26 POEMS. 

" A woman's pride, have I," she cried ; 

" Few choose where best they cling ; 
My heart was thirst when to me first 

You held a wedding-ring ; 
The dream of wealth came in by stealth, 

My love and I to part." — 
" Art thou betrothed? " the brewer quothed ; 

" Ay ! to vay jealous Art." 

"No rank have I thy brow to grace, 

No gem thy wrist to bind ; 
I kneel not only to thy face, 

But to thy perfect mind." 
He wears the mien to please a queen, 

Or charm a bard alike ; 
And hot tears rise to the bright eves 

Of Margaret Van Eyck. 

" Oh ! it is hard to so discard 

The bliss you bid me prove : 
Home, children, thee, the world to be 

A rest, a dream, a love ; 
Yet, Egmont, go ! I did not know 

One qualm my vow could thwart, — 
The pang is past, the die is cast. 

For widowhood and — Art ! " 

Her day is done ; she has not won 

A name the world to start ; 
She passed her span as she began : 

A vestal to her art. 



POEMS. 27 

Yet in its host, more great, more wise, 

To whom our hats we strike, 
None show more pious sacrifice 

Than Margaret Van Eyck. 



THE PIGEON GIRL. 

On the sloping market-place, 

In the village of Compeigne, 
Every Saturday her face, 

Lilce a Sunclaj^, comes again ; 
Daj'light finds her in her seat, 
With her panier at her feet. 

Where her pigeons lie in pairs ; 
Like their plumage gray her gown, 
To her sabots drooping down ; 
And a kerchief, brigljtly brown, 

Binds her smooth, dark hairs. 

All the buj'ers knew her well, 

And, perforce, her face must see, 
As a holy Raphael 

Lures us in a gallery ; 
Round about the rustics gape, 
Drinking in her comely shape, 

And the housewives gently speak, 
When into her e3'es they look. 
As within some holy book. 
And the gables, high and crook, 

Fling their sunshine on her cheek. 



28 POEMS. 

In her hands two milk-white cloves, 

Happy in her lap to lie, 
Softly murmur of their loves, 

Envied by the passers-by ; 
One by one their flight they take. 
Bought and cherished for her sake, 

Leaving so reluctantly ; 
Till the shadows close approach. 
Fades the pageant, foot and coach, 
And the giants in the cloche 

Ring the noon for Picardie. 



Round the village see her glide, 

"With a slender sunbeam's pace ! 
Mirrored in the Oise's tide. 

The gold-fish haste to kiss her face ; 
All the soldiers touch their caps ; 
In the cafes quit their naps 

Gar^on, guest, to wish her back ; 
And the fat old beadles smile 
As she kneels along the aisle, 
Like Pucelle in other while. 

In the dim church of Saint Jacques. 

Now she climbs her dappled ass, — 
He well-pleased such friend to know, — 

And right merrily they pass 
The armorial chateau ; 

Down the long, straight paths they tread 

Till the forest, overhead. 
Whispers low its leafy love ; 



POEMS. 29 

In the archways' green caress 
Rides the wondrous dryadess — 
Thrills the grass beneath her press, 
And the blue-eyed sky above. 

I have met her, o'er and o'er, 

As I strolled alone apart. 
By a lonely carrefour 

In the forest's tangled heart, 
Safe as an}' stag that bore 
Imprint of the Emperor ; 

In the copse that round her grew 
Tiptoe the straight saplings stood, 
Peeped the wild boar's satyr brood. 
Like an arrow clove the wood 

The glad note of the cuckoo. 

How I wished myself her friend ! 

(So she wished that I were more) 
Jogging toward her journey's end 

At Saint Jean au Bois before, 
"Where her father's acres fall 
Just without the abbey wall ; 

By the cool well loiteringly 
The shaggy Norman horses stray, 
In the thatch the pigeons play, 
And the forest round alway 

Folds the hamlet, like a sea. 

Far forgotten all the feud 

In my New World's childhood haunts. 
If m}' childhood she renewed 

In this pleasant nook of France ; 



30 POEMS. 



Might she make the bleuze I wear, 
Welcome then her homely fare 

And her sensuous religion ! 
To the market we should ride, 
In the Mass kneel side by side, 
Might I warm, each eventide. 

In my nest, my pretty pigeon. 



TO VICTOR HUGO. 

Thy granite Guernsey, sea-girt, doth consort 
With thy heroic virtues, patriot stern ; 
Where like a flashing lighthouse brighter burn 

Thy proud, indignant j-ears of exiled art. 

Of neither neighboring Empire subject-part, 
Man's tjTanny and nature's to discern, 
Disdaining both, that rock shall be thj' urn. 

The famed crater of thy quenched heart. 

Yet do we thank the crowned thief, that so 
He threw his chiefest diamond in the sea, 

To light the sails of freedom where they tack, 

Who doth himself to Letters' portal go, 
With his poor, printed lie approved to be. 

And would give wars to win this Hugo back ! 



POEMS, 31 



A FACE IN LA BOH^ME. 

My hope to take his hand, 

His world my promised land, 
I thought no face so beautiful and high. 

When he had called me " Friend," 

I reached ambition's end. 
And Art's protection in his kindly eye. 

My dream and truth were one, — 

A dear Pygmalion, 
His thoughts were fancies and his conquests play ; 

No mad thirsts in him pent, 

His hates were indolent. 
His graces calm and eloquent alway. 

Not love's converse now seems 

So tender to my dreams 
As he, discursive at our mutual desk, 

Most fervid and most ripe. 

When dreaming at his pipe. 
He made the opiate nights grow Arabesque. 

His crayon never sharp, 

Tender and soft his harp, 
He made such sweetness I was discontent ; 

He knew not the desire 

To rise from warmth to fire, 
And with his genius rend the firmament. 



32 POEMS. 

Perhaps too great my faith, 

Perhaps some past heart-scath 
Took from his life the zest of reaching far, — 

And so grew my regret. 

To see my pride forget 
That many -watched him like a risen star. 

Vain the half-uttered curse 

Upon the school perverse, 
That was his sponsor ere a creed he knew ! 

Not dear decoying art, 

But the crushed, loving heart. 
Makes the young life to its resolves untrue. 

Therefore his haunts were glad ; 

Therefore his rhymes were sad ; 
Therefore he laughed at m}'- reproach and goad. 

With listless dreams and vague, 

Passed not the walls of Prague, 
To hew some fresh and individual road. 

Still like an ej)ic round, 

"With beautifulness crowned, 
I read his memory, tenderer every year. 

Complete with graciousness. 

Gifted and purposeless. 
And to my heart as some grand Master dear. 



POEMS. 33 



GONDOLIERS' SONG. 

Venice, October 19, 18G6. 

Venice, our mother ! unbound to the Sea, 
(Waiting so faithfull}' long at thy door), 

Proudly we gather our prows at thy knee, 
Borne on the breast of our Father so hoar, 
Unsworded of all but our oar ! 

Chorus. 

Sui di Lungo ! * Make way before ! 
Bend to the oar ! Bend to the oar ! 

Shadows of braver years, 

Hopeful for more. 
Gravely we gondoliers bend to the oar ! 

Fewer are we, since they fettered thy hands ; 

Swearing to free thee our best are no more ; 
Close to thy feet lie their keels in the sands, 

But their old gonfalons wave from the shore, 

And thrilled are our arms at the oar. 

Lean are thy palaces, leaner th}' purse ; 

Passed from thy waters the glitter they wore ; 
Noble and counsellor palsied to curse, 

Leave to thy workmen the buckler they bore, 

Thy sailors the blade of the oar. 

* Sui di lungo! (Go straight ahead!) The cry of gondoliers to indicate 
direction. 



34 POEMS. 

Doges and Admirals carved in white, 
Impotent horses and lions of lore 

Look where the campanile leans on the light, 
Saying, " The People alone we implore, 
Again shake the world with the oar ! 

" Long we denied them at counsel and feast, 
Lo ! how their mother they rise to restore ! 

Truer than dungeon, or relic, or priest, 

Louder and grander than cannon their roar, 
The pulse of the world in their oar ! " 

Landsmen and seamen, our brethren of work, 
Answer us gondoliers back from the shore : 

Not in the conquest of Saxon or Turk, 
Not from the Genoase, nor from the Moor, 
Shall glory be won for the oar ! 

Man we our galleys with Freedom and Toil, 
Write on our banners from Ind to Azore : 

" Tyranny, ignorance, these be our spoil ; 
Art and Humanit}^, these be our store ; 
And this be the song of the oar : 

Chorus. 

"/Swi di Lungo ! Make way before ! 
Bend to the oar ! Bend to the oar ! 
Shadows of braver years, 
Hopeful for more, 
Gravely we gondoliers bend to the oar !" 



POEMS. 35 



SEARCHING FOR THE POLE.* 

Sweetheart, the flag yon gave rae when we parted 

Waves in this Arctic blue ; 
It is, my lost one, loving and high-hearted, 

Not I who bear it, but the ghost of you. 
Warm-red it flutters, like the firelight's flashing, 

When in my arms you told 
How there were duties fonder than our passion, 

And comforts in the polar cold. 
I know you will not kiss me, home-arriving, 

For more than oceans 'twixt us roll ; 
Still, dead one, dear one, I am striving, striving, — 

Sweetheart ! sweetheart ! aye searching for the Pole ! 



All day the solemn icebergs drift before us. 

So shivering and stark ; 
All night, beneath bewildering auroras, 

We hear the great sea-horse's freezing bark. 
The white bear follows over floes and ledges 

To see our camp-fires glow ; 
The wolf-dogs fly in fear before our sledges. 

To scare the wondering Esquimaux. 



* " On an eminence overlooking the Arctic Ocean, Franklin had the mournful 
privilege of unfurling to the cold breeze a banner presented to him by his 
first wife for this purpose, as she lay on her death-bed, a few days before his 
departure. She died the day after he loft England." — Arctic Explorations. 



36 POEMS. 

Long bowl the silver foxes as we gallop, 

To mark man pass their furthest goal 
Where never sea-bird screamed above a shallop, — 

Sweetheart ! sweetheart ! we're searching for the Pole ! 



Low throb the tides ; the pallid stars set never ; 

The needle flickers chill ; 
The pitying compass points from our endeavor, — 

Still steer we North by our magnetic will ! 
Dead-faced, the steady Boreal orb above us 

Shines with no cheering hue ; 
Our icy dreams are warm with those who love us, — 

They plead " Come back ! " the good, the true. 
But from Man's cause shall no man's tears recall us ; 

" Proclivior ! " cries the deathless soul ; 
Fling out our flag, whatever fate befall us, — 

Sweetheart ! sweetheart ! we're searching for the Pole ! 



The ice-floes southward float while we are ursrins: 

Across their crackling crust ; 
"Wide splits the ocean to its undersurging ; 

In God's right hand to bear us up, we trust : 
And one by one our comrades, hungering, thirsting, 

Drop in the snows to sleep ; 
We bend and kiss them, with our poor hearts bursting, 

And journey on ; we dare not weep. 
We leave them milestones, that men may pursue us. 

And for their martyr's aureole, 
The Northern Lights burn beautiful unto us, — 

Sweetheart ! sweetheart ! we're searching for the Pole ! 



POEMS. 37 

Alone I go, my last brave sailor perished. 

I fall, clear heart ! I faint. 
Out of my hand joxxx flag so well I cherished, 

Reach down from heaven, and bear it on, dear saint ! 
No farther from me in these lone, bleak regions 

Than where we loved and wed, 
Robed in j^our white and beautiful religions, 

I knew 3'ou followed me o'erhead. 
Oh, bliss ! Nor death nor seas nor winter sever 

My earnest purpose from ray soul ; 
The flag of love and courage blows forever. 

Sweetheart ! sweetheart ! still searching for the Pole ! 



CZECH. 

TuE farther I do grow from La Boheme^ 
The more do I regret that foolish shame 

Which made me hold it something to conceal. 
And so I did myself expatriate ; 

For in my habit and my heart, I feel 
That wayward realm was still ray true estate ; 
Wise wagged our tongues when the dear nights grew 

late. 
And clearer, higher, rose our quick conceits. 
And pure and rautual were our social sweets. 
Oh ! ever thus convivial round the gate 

Of Letters, have the Masters and the young 
Loitered away their enterprises great. 
Since Spenser revelled in the halls of state. 

And at his tavern rarest Jonson suns;. 



38 POEMS. 



MISSOURI RIVER. 

Robbed by my younger brother of my name, 

Still in my shaggy length more grand than he, 
They lose my mutilation in my fame, — 
Myself my sea ! 

The bisons are my ripples, and their roar 

But murmurs to my surges. God's compacts 
Seem broken, when the mountains split before 
My cataracts. 

No lake begot me, but my mother's breasts — 

Sun-nippled peaks of uncaressed snow — 
Give suck to my strong children past the nests 
The eagles know. 



All time I thread, as well as all estate ; 

The voidness of the prairie, and the chasm 
Of chaos, and life's earlier and late 
Birth-throe and spasm ; 

The vast-leafed forests, in whose dazzling hues 

. Primeval beasts hide their insatiate frays, 
Infinite swells, under whose silent blues 
The sreat elk graze. 



POEMS. 39 

Last of my monuments, deferred long, 

Mind feebly reasons upon sanguine things, 
And down my rapids like a fire-fly's song 
The war-whoop rings. 

Far reaching where his village school spires gleam, 

The mighty barges of God's man I see, 
And feel a soul grow in me with his steam, 
A destiny. 

Come, Freedom ! shear me of my Esau's locks — 

These wildernesses that the wolves infest ; 
And for a highway to the sunset flocks 
I give my breast. 



SAVONAROLA. 

Make fast his stake ! we will no zeal 
Our household deities to raze ; 

He dared not try the red ordeal, 

Who walked through fire all his days. 

Ye battlements the clouds which cleave ! 

Rise 'twixt his scaflTold and his hope ! 
He would not our enslaver shrieve, 

Nor still his thunder for the Pope. 

If in his fitful sleep they sang, 
Let angels come in his extreme — 

The deatii thrill is the trance's pang, 
Preceding onlj^ such a dream. 



40 POEMS. 

Low, beetle-browed, and vulture-miened, 
He knew uo high aesthetic taste, 

But called his patroness a fiend 

When o'er his sermon swept her face. 

Avenge yourselves, ye marble Arts, 
Which from yon silent loggia scowl, 

He measured poets by their hearts. 
And crowned our painters with a cowl. 

Cheer! guildsmen, turbulent and brown, — 
No miracle mars our intent — 

An angel led him to the town, 
He led the angel when he went. 

He hath confessed and so must die, — 

What Christ hath said, could he take back? 

The rack may make the manly lie, 
The lie lives only with the rack. 

Disrobe the shape so bowed and gaunt ! 

Lo ! in the furnace yet he prates — 
The Church disowns him, militant, 

Whom Time, triumphant, vindicates ! 

Death opens wide, — his grand soul spent, — 
Beyond the rosy mountain tips, 

To crown the martyr's testament 
His beautiful apocalypse. 



POEMS. 41 



THE DREAM OF MALTIIUS. 

That which by slow processes, I foretold, 
Came true iintimeh', in one night, instead, 

That space grew never, and that man grew old ; 
The o'er-worked World with life was surfeited, 
And at her breast tlie happy were the dead. 



Not now cried woman : " Give me children, God ! " 
" Let me be fatherless ! " her husband's praj-er, — 

" Heir in thy universe to but one clod, 
May she be barren as the Kingdoms are. 
Where hungry millions make perpetual war ! " 



" Come we apart," the lover whispered low ; 
" There is no solitude," his co}^ one cried, 

"Whereto in trusting silence we may go. 
To hide the nuptial blushes of the bride, 
The crowded, shrouded, trampled country wide." 



The woods are jungles, where the tiger-men 
Filch from the tiger-whelp his red repast ; 

As if an army camped in every glen 
The desert wilds are populous at last, 
And the invaded peaks look down aghast. 



42 POEMS 



Hail to the Sea ! since all the land is filled ; 

And the strong moon no more her tides can draw, 
Whereon the drowned their habitations build, 

And the cramped fleets combat in furious law, 

The hunted fishes witnessing in awe. 



And raging pestilences all do bless, 

Behind whose march the land grows fat a space, 

But in their wake the famished reapers press. 

And when of grain the graveyard shows no trace, 
Man turns to man in hate his locust face. 



Now the most true philanthropy is war, 

And there are kingdoms always left to crack ; 

Though to the globe's end rolls the conquering car, 
A daily generation calls it back, 
And he is Christ who puts the most to rack. 



Therefore sits haggard Science with his crust. 
To re-enrich his wasted planet bent, 

Or to some far sphere, full of youth and lust. 
His kind to translate, — this end to invent 
He dies for food in his experiment. 



And up to heaven goes the united wail, — 
Man now most manly in his last despair, — 

"Are there, my God ! no lands where we may sail, 
In the hot tropics, in the Arctic air. 
In the l)lack mines, the earthquake, anywhere? 



POEMS. 43 

" Let us once more our separate shadows see, 
So long entangled ! If to be alone 

No loneliness but only death there be, 

Come, death ! for quiet's sake, we Thee bemoan 
Be3'ond whose plan our rash mankind has grown. 



" Breathe in our world that it may broader grow, 
And to its brethren, the bright stars, expand ! 

Its boundlessness that we once more m;)}- know. 
And beautifulness, where on ever^^ hand 
Some lone and vast surprise we maj^ command. 



" Yet one bold man this expiation taught, — 
At whose appeal our mocking lips we curled, — 

And bade our tribes to chastity and thought. 

Since on one wretched age there should be hurled 
The lusts accumulated of the world ! " 



44 POEMS. 



CHESTER RIVER. 

Wise is the wild duck winging straiglit to thee, 
River of summer ! from tlie cold Arctic sea, 
Coming, like his fathers for centuries, to seek 
The sweet, salt pastures of the far Chesapeake. 

Soft 'twixt thy capes like sunset's purple coves, 
Shallow the channel glides through silent oj^ster groves. 
Round Kent's ancient isle and by beaches brown. 
Cleaving the fruity farms to slumb'rous Chestertown. 

Long ere the great bay bore the Baltimores, 
Yielded thy virgin tide to Virginian oars. 
Elsewhere the word went, "Multiply ! increase!" 
Long ago thy destinies were perfect as thy peace. 

Still like thy water-fowl yearly do I yearn 
In memory's migration once more to return, 
Where the dull old college from the gentle ridge 
O'erlooks the sunny village, the river, and the bridge. 

On the pier decrepit I do loiter yet^ 

With my crafty crab-lines and my homespun net. 

Till the silver fishes in pools of twilight swam. 

And stars played round ray bait in the coves of calm. 



POEMS. 45 

Sweet were the chinquapins growing by thy brink, 
Sweet the cool spring water in the gourd to drink, 
Beautiful the lilies when the tide declined. 
As if night receding had left some stars behind. 

But when the peach tints vanished from the plain, 
Or struggled no longer the shad against the seine, 
Every reed in thy marsh unto music stirred, 
And to gold it blossomed in a singing bird. 

Eden of water-fowl, clinging to thy dells. 
Ages of mollusks have yielded their shells, 
While, like the exquisite spirits they shed, 
Ride the white swans in the surface o'erhead. 

Silent the otter, stealing by thy moon 

Through the fluttered heron, hears the howl of the loon ; 

Motionless the setter in thy dawnlight graj', 

Shows the happy hidden cove where the wild duck play. 

Homely are thy boatmen, venturing no more 

In their dusky pungies than to Baltimore, 

Happy when the freshet from northern mountains sweeps, 

And strews the bay with lumber like wrecks upon the deeps. 

Not for thy homesteads of a former space, 
Not for thy families of suppositious race ; 
Something I love thee, river, for thy rest, 
More for my childhood buried in thy breast. 

From the mightier Empire of the solid land, 

A pilgrim infrequent I seek thy fertile strand. 

And with a calm affection would wish my grave to be 

Where falls the Chester to the bay, the baj'- unto the sea. 



46 roEM s . 



THE DUKE'S DAUGHTER. 

A DARK mood swept across his eye, 

Like storm-cloud past a star ; 
A nameless man had dared to woo 

His fair Eleanor ; 
Yet to the witling's bold pretence 

He listened, grimly mild, 
The while, in simple confidence, 

He said : " Duke Hugh ! I love your child ! " 

The}^ called the sweet Eleanor, 

Who had been waiting near ; 
She walked straightway to Leon's side. 

And blushed, but did not fear ; 
" If his be boldness, mine be shame ! 

On both your wrath must stand, — 
I rather would share Leon's name. 

Than any noble's in the land ! " 

He sought his sword-hilt as she spoke ; 

The blood climbed up his hair ; 
He saw his pride in her blue eyes. 

And in her bosom fair. 
" You gave this man to teach me arts 

To snare some mailed glove, — 
"We have read only our two hearts, 

And learned the story of our love ! " 



POEMS. 

" In sooth," he laughed, " this might I grant, 

Were he but strong as sage, — 
"We need not scholars for our sons. 

This is the iron age ; 
When up the Seine the Northmen tack, 

Our Neustrian brides to fright, 
'Tis not a book will beat them back, — 

And your frail lover cannot fight ! " 

" So may I see him battling never 

Amid your brawling braves, — 
We will go hence where peace dwells ever, 

And wait for quiet graves ! " 
" Then," cried Duke Hugh, " thus shall it fare j'ou 

If he dare so requite you. 
To my high castle let him bear you. 

And, by my Dukedom ! he shall plight you." 

That cliff what foot of man had scaled. 

Though cased in lightest sandal ? 
Its steep sides shelved down where the Seine 

Caught the young, leaping Andelle ; 
Not by the road which climbed the croft 

Must burdened Leon win it ; 
And as the lovers looked aloft. 

Their hearts sank down in grief a minute. 

" Fear not, dear love ! " he cried, aflush, 

" While thy arm round me clings, 
Thou Shalt be light as my young heart, — 

My feet shall mount like wings ! " 



47 



48 POEMS. 

She folds his throat in dainty bands, 
Her lips his temples kiss, — 

He feels her pressure in his hands, 
And paces up the precipice. 

He knows no doubt ; upon his eyes 

Shower down her locks of flax, — 
Love on our bosom lightly sits. 

Not so upon our backs. 
Beauty in dreams weighs light indeed, 

Gliding down slumber's arches, — 
But that our dear ones help our speed 

Is not so plain, in real marches. 

His breath grows short, his brow is hot ; 

She holds him up by love ! 
" Lo ! we have passed the poplar-tops ; 

Beneath us flies the dove ; 
The grim old towers are close before : 

I see far villages ; 
And, like a sunbeam on the floor. 

The Seine shines through its tillages ! 



" Far stretch the hills ; as blue are they 

As ej'es bright for your praises. 
The white rocks gleam along their sides 

Thick as the meadow daisies ; 
We will go, love, as far as they, 

When this our task is over ; 
And on 3'our neck I thus shall sway, 

A sipping bee on spray of clover." 



POE M^ . 49 

His limbs bend down ; he binds her hands ; 

He hears her poor heart beat ; 
He bids her pray to Christ, who lifts 

The sore and feeble feet ; 
He thought by so much toil the sky 

Ere this to enter in, — 
Perhaps God's heaven is nearer by 

Than the dim towers they strive to win ! 

" Sweetheart ! the church-bell's soft refrains 

Are blending with the Andelle's ! 
Tiie sunset stains the cottage panes, 

Like our own nuptial candles ; 
Far down the tiny barges pass, 

Like our lives, calmly flowing ; 
I scarce see in the plains of grass 

The cattle, though I hear them lowing. 

" You are aweary, — see ! j'ou slip ; 

Nay, now you go on naively, — 
Drink this fresh breatli upon my lip, — 

But you climb very bravely ! 
I see you shrink, dear martyr, mine, 

My own hands thrill and sever ; 
Oh ! could I fuse my strength with thine, 

Like our two souls, in this endeavor ! " 

His eyes grow dim ; his feet are lead, — 

Old Atlas paced as slow ; 
He did not think so sweet a world 

Could make him stagger so ; 



50 POEMS. 

" Dear love ! " she said, " the place is high, — 

Then let us fall together ; 
Perhaps, in pity when we die, 

They will entomb us in one heather." 

Still, like some weary bird to reach 

The native coast it grew on, 
He struggles up ; she sees far Mantes ; 

She sees the spires of Rouen ; 
Her leering sire she scarce can tell 

Among the village people, 
Praying for her they love so well, 

In groups beneath the gray church-steeple. 

As these her floating robes regard, 

They think her golden tresses 
An angel's, sailing heavenward, 

With man in their caresses ; 
Beneath her white feet shone a star, 

As if she trod upon it, 
And trembled the old cliff afar, 

When peeled the cheer that they had won it. 

When round the path the gossips wind, 

To greet them, on the hill-top lying. 
Young Leon stretched in death they find, 

Eleanor was dying ! 
Her helpless hands enfold him tight, — 

Close by the4edge he crouches, — 
And twilight, like a funeral rite. 

Flung its last roses on their couches ! 



POEMS. 51 

The vassals stand beside to weep ; 

Duke Hugh kneels down to sigh : 
" My castle is no home for me, — 

No daughter now have I ! 
Where stand these towers, a convent-shrine 

These broken hearts shall gather ; 
And by this loving child of mine 

Shall sleep ere long her cruel father." 



MOTHER. 

OxE gaunt, stern face, appears, — 
All euergj'" and bone, — 
Its black hairs blacker grown. 

As burnt, not bleached, by years 

Of travail and of tears. 

When I come home from sea, 
It meets me at the door, 

As half a century 

It met its love before. 
And blushes o'er and o'er. 

Soft glow its eyes of gray ; 

Between us falls a mist ; 
I thrill as I could pray. 

Rebuked upon her wrist 

So fondly to be kissed. 



52 POEMS. 

Then up the stairs we go, 
(The house is dark and vast, 

"Where, rocking to and fro, 
She lives back all the past, 
Till I return at last ;) 



"Where, bidding me recite 

Strange news that I have won, 

Her cheeks wear hectic light. 
Not in what I have done. 
But that I am her son. 



O face ! you wring my heart 
Your piteous faith to see ! 

My loves, my world, my art, 
Are less than vanity. 
Beside your art in me ! 



POEMS. 53 



THE EXCEEDING HIGH MOUNTAIN, 

SATAN. 

Thy face is like a star ; 
Bright skies thj'' vestments are ; 

Thy feet are wliite as snow, 
Fair Ctirist ! see tliine estate, — 

The World, look up below : 
How grandly passionate 

Its flushes come and go ! 

CHRIST. 

*Tis beautiful and dark, — 
Like thy face, now I mark ! 

With scars and furrows rent ; 
To Heaven still smiling pride, 

Superbly sentient. 
Wherein all powers abide 

Save powerful content. 

SATAN. 

Tried so hj fire intense, 
And far experience, 

All grief is thoughtful good 
And right untravelled wrong ; 

This, else misunderstood. 
Come ! let me make more strong 

To thy young Godlihood. 



54 POEMS. 



CHBT5T. 



Nay ! that I may depart 
Unstained, save by my heart, 

I will not walk with thee, 
Nor thy delights, divine ; 

Keep thy philosophy, 
And I my high design 

Wherein all trials be. 

SATAX. 

Yon world of fire and floss, 
Beyond thy birth and cross, 

Hath mysteries intricate ; 
And energies and aims 

Past my armed power of late. 
And self-imposed shames 

Thy death cannot abate. 

CHEIST. 

Calm in my God's intent, 
Vain thy discouragement, — 

Though God were slain I die ! 
Though in yon deep blue rim, 

Thoughts, sweets, and wishes high 
Draw down the cherubim, 

In faith I will go by ! 

SATAN. 

Hast thou man's shape erect. 
And prying intellect, 



POEMS. 55 

And would not look within, 
"Where, in his curse, he dares 

Make art of his own sin, — 
Whoso name shall in his prayers 

All salutation win? 



CHRIST. 

Out of thj' soul's abysm, 
Thine eye's dark magnetism 

Draws not my feet astray ; 
I will not walk with thee ! 

To wish is but to pray 
Th3^ depths profound to see, - 

I have my work. Away ! 



SATAN. 

Thou art no God, but boy ! 
If not for thought, for joy 

Come look, where, j^oung and warm. 
Thy bright-eyed pleasures wait ; 

And on the white, ripe arm 
Of love, insatiate. 

Dream Heaven hath no such charm I 



CHRIST. 

Lo ! where, all lowly grace 
Set in her wifely face, 



56 roEMS. 

My mothei-, like a prayer, 
Sits beaming at her hearth : 

Hast thou, fiend ! anywhere, 
Amid thy coarser earth, 

Like love ? 

SATAN. 

Avaunt ! Forbear ! 



STEERFORTH. 

" Tou come upon me," he said, almost angrily, " like a roproacliful ghost." 
• David Copperfield. 

I GOSSIP of my evening's play ; 

You dare not speak of your romance, 
But pillowed on my good-night glance 

Dream tremulously until day ; 

And half in thrill and half in guilt you pray. 

I saw your still sweet face alone, 

I but rehearsed an idle part ; 

New images rose in your heart : 
Tou felt the music of man's tone, 
You felt your hand lie trembling in my own. 

You saw the gray dome cleave the ash. 

The wizard spectre of St. Paul ; 

You saw a fluttering shape and shawl 
Leap from the bridge with scream and splash ; 
You did not heed, for love is blind and rash. 



» POEMS. 57 

Will 3'ou go clown to Hungerford, 

Sometime anew when starlight comes? 
And, while the river howls and hums, 

"Wait for ray footfall and my word ? 

Ah ! I have many such affairs, my bird ! 

The steamers glide beneath the piers, 
The black hulls vanish in the mist. 
The cheek is burning where I kissed, 

The eyes I praised are dim with tears ; 

It will be all forgotten, child, with years. 

The world is great and folk must plight, 
Though some there be who may but mate, 
And with unseemly leer and gait. 

Men's sisters pass me in the night ; 

I dare say each lost soul arraigns some wight. 

When dies Haymarket's hollow glee, 
And Holburn's plumes no longer toss, 
And from her haunt at Charing Cross 
The last pale ghost shall be set free. 
Shall thy child's face rise up to frown on me? 



58 POEMS. 



THE CIRCUIT PREACHER. 

His thin wife's cheek grows pinched and pale with anxious- 

ness intense ; 
He sees the brethren's praj^erful eyes o'er all the conference ; 
He hears the Bishop slowly call the long "Appointment" 

rolls, 
Where in his vine3'ard God would place these gatherers of 

souls. 



Apart, austere, the knot of grim Presiding Elders sit ; 
He wonders if some city " Charge" may not for him have 

writ ? 
Certes ! could they his sermon hear on Paul and Luke 

a wreck. 
Then had his talent ne'er been hid on Annomessix Neck ! 



Poor rugged heart, be still a pause, and j^ou, worn wife, be 
meek ! 

Two years of banishment they read far down the Chesa- 
peake ! 

Though Brother Bates, less eloquent, by "Wilmington is 
wooed. 

The Lord that counts the sparrows fall shall feed his little 
brood. 



ponMs. 59 

" Cheer up ! my girl, here Brother Riggs our ch-cuit knows 

'twill please. 
He raised three hundred dollars there, besides the marriage 

fees. 
What ! tears from us who preached the word these thirty 

years or so? 
Two years on barren Chincoteague, and two in Tuckahoe? 



" The schools are good, the brethren say, and our Church 

holds the wheel ; 
The Presbyterians lost their house ; the Baptists lost their 

zeal. 
The parsonage is clean and dry ; the town has friendly 

folk, — 
Not half so dull as Rehoboth, nor proud like Pocomoke. 



" Oh ! thy just will, our Lord, be done, though these eight 

seasons more, 
"We see our ague-crippled boys pine on the Eastern Shore, 
While we, thy stewards, journey out our dedicated years. 
Midst foresters of Nanticoke, or heathen of Tangiers ! 



" Yea ! some must serve on God's frontiers, and I shall 
fail, perforce. 

To sow upon some better ground my most select dis- 
course ; 

At Sassafras, or Smjn-na, preach my argument on ' Drink,* 

My series on the Pentateuch, at Appoquinimink. 



60 POEMS. 

" Gray am I, brethren, in the work, though tough to bear 

my part ; 
It is these drooping little ones that sometimes wring my 

heart, 
And cheat me with the vain conceit the cleverness is mine 
To fill the churches of the Elk, and pass the Brandywine. 



"These hairs were brown, when, full of hope, ent'ring 
these holy lists. 

Proud of my Order as a knight, — the shouting Metho- 
dists, — 

I made the pine woods ring with hymns, with prayer the 
night-winds shook. 

And preached from Assawaman Light far North as Bom- 
bay Hook. 

" My nag was gray, my gig was new ; fast went the sandy 

miles ; 
The eldest Trustees gave me praise, the fairest sisters 

smiles ; 
Still I recall how Elder Smith of Worten Heights averred 
My Apostolic Parallels the best he ever heard. 

" All winter long I rode the snows, rejoicing on my way ; 
At midnight our Revival hymns rolled o'er the sobbing 

bay; 
Three Sabbath sermons, every week, should tire a man of 

brass, — 
And still our fervent membership must have their extra 

Class ! 



POEMS. 61 

" Aggressive with the zeal of youth, in many a warm re- 
quite 
I terrified Immersionists, and scourged the Millerite ; 
But larger, tenderer charities such vain debates supplant, 
When the dear wife, saved by my zeal, loved the Itinerant. 



" No cooing dove of storms afeard, she shared my life's 

distress, 
A singing Miriam, alway, in God's poor wilderness ; 
The wretched at her footstep smiled, the frivolous were 

still ; 
A bright path marked her pilgrimage, from Blackbird to 

Snowhill. 



" A new face in the parsonage, at church a double pride ! — 

Like the Madonna and her babe they filled the ' Amen- 
side ' — 

Crouched at my feet in the old gig, my boy, so fair and 
frank, 

Nascongo's darkest marshes cheered, and sluices of Chop- 
tank. 



" My cloth drew close ; too fruitful love my fruitless life 
outran ; 

The townfolk marvelled, when we moved, at such a cara- 
van! 

I wonder not my lads grew wild, when, bright, without the 
door 

Spread the ripe, luring, wanton world, — and we, witliiu, 
so poor ! 



62 POEMS. 

" For, clown the silent cypress aisles came shapes even me 
to scout, 

Mocking the lean flanks of my mare, my boy's patched 
roundabout. 

And saying : ' Have these starveling boors, thy congrega- 
tion, souls. 

That on their dull heads Heaven and thou pour forth such 
living coals ? ' 

" Then prayer brought hopes, half secular, like seers by 

Endor's witch : 
Be3'ond our barren Maryland God's folks were wise and 

rich ; 
"Where climbing spires and easy pews showed how the 

preacher thrived, 
And all old brethren paid their rents, and many young 

ones wived ! 

" I saw the ships Henlopen pass with chaplains fat and 
sleek ; 

From Bishopshead with fancy's sails I crossed the Chesa- 
peake ; 

In velvet pulpits of the North said my best sermons o'er, — 

And that on Paul to Patmos driven, drew tears in Balti- 
more. 

" Well ! well ! my brethren, it is true we should not preach 
for pelf, — 

(I would my sermon on Saint Paul the Bishop heard him- 
self!) 

But this crushed wife, — these boys, — these hairs ! they 
cut me to the core ; 

Is it not hard, year after year, to ride the Eastern Shore ? 



roEMS. 63 

"Next 3'ear? Yes! yes! I thank you much! Then my 
reward may fall. 

(That is a downright fine discourse on Patmos and St. 
Paul !) 

So, Brother Riggs, once more my voice shall ring in the 
old lists. 

Cheer up, sick heart, who would not die among these Meth- 
odists?" 



KISHICOQUILLAS. 

KiSHicoQuiLLAS ! beautiful word, 

Soft as the river it christens, — 
That drops from the mountain down like a bird, 
In trills of natural melody heard, 

Saying, to any who listens, 
Under the hemlocks or over the willows : 
" Kishicoquillas ! " 



Once, when a boy, I strayed from thy rills, 

Far in the green Alleghanies, 
Adown through the clefts of the wild gray hills 
To the golden valley of brooks and mills, 

Where the strong Juniata's refrain is : 

("Waiting to bear thee away on his billows) 

"Kishicoquillas!" 



64 POEMS. 

Shrill the bald eagle screamed to tear 

Thy silvery trout he had taken ; 
The QyQS of the red fox winked from his lair ; 
Deep in thy sands were the tracks of the bear ; 

By the stag's tall antlers shaken 
The boughs of the s^'camore murmured to thrill us 
" Kishicoquillas ! " 

Down the long aisles of beech and oak, 

Shyly the deer were grazing ; 
Cheerily echoed the lumbermen's stroke ; 
Bluely arose their camp-fire's smoke ; 

Dreamy by distance the song the^^ were raising, 
Thou with thy life in thy name seemed to thrill us 
" Kishicoquillas ! " 

Called the young quail from the mossy brake ; 

The woodcock whirred a-soaring ; 
Rang his alarum the rattlesnake, 
The cataract climbed the beard of the lake ; 

The old red mill slept a-snoring ; 
Bending, the cattle drank under thy willows, 
Kishicoquillas ! 

Sweeter thy water than sugar that drips 
In the cup of thy maples wounded. 

Sweet as kisses on virgin lips 

Thy name, that is music to him who sips. 
Each time that its prattle is sounded. 

Liquid and loving, like thee, to thrill us : 
• " Kishicoquillas ! " 



POEMS. 65 



JOAN OF ARC. 

'Tis very old, j^ou sa}'-, ray clear, 

Yet is its memory ever new ; 
Two tilings grow younger, year by year, 

The good, heroic, and the true ; 
Though these old gables lean and scowl. 

And this old square is weird and dark, 
Here the hot flames, with glare and growl, 
Showed beautiful to murder foul 

The high face of Joan of Arc. 



Not yet so old as j'ou, my sweet, 

"When to my arms a bride you came. 
Her brave soul went out from the heat. 

One half to God, and half to fame ; 
To bishop's cross and baron's lance, 

Her white feet showed the fetter's mark. 
Yet in her rapt and steadfast glance, 
All the good peace she won for France, 

Gave grace to poor Joan of Arc. 



She saw advance with axe and brand 
The cruel English robber crowned. 

And in the wailing of the land 

The sheep-bells of her flocks were drowned ; 
5 



66 POEMS. 

Then from Doremj^'s haunted wood 

Strange voices bade her hope and hark, 
That since no man the foe withstood, 
A girl could beat them if she would, — 
Pure and obscure Joan of Arc ! 



Kings in that day, perchance, m}'- bride, 

To nobler port and stature ran 
Than he you saw in Paris ride, — 

A stunted, low-browed, ugly man. 
Far from the fight, in Chinon's tower, 

King Charles grew sleek with jest and lark, 
She sought him in his inmost bower, 
And knew him by the holy power 

God save to brave Joan of Arc. 



Then all the knights grew shamed, to see 

This poor girl's ardor so intense ; 
And the king's mistress charged him be 

Worthy of so grand eloquence ; 
She bade them in Saint Catherine's vale 

The five-crossed sword, anointed, mark ; 
Her banner bore the lilies pale. 
And her white bosom glint with mail. 

To battle rode Joan of Arc. 

Lo ! where she rides the women pray ! 

The men-at-arms her signal wait ! 
Upon her helmet in the fray. 

The ruined country feels its fate ! 



POEMS. 67 

Or be her spirit saint's, or queen's, 
O'er swaying life, and slain men stark 

Her snow-white banner still careens, 

Till on the towers of Orleans 
'Tis planted by Joan of Arc ! 



Cry the pale English in the strife, 

" This virgin must a sorceress be ! " 
Such sorceress, my dearest wife, 

As you, perhaps, who conquered me. 
They fly where'er her tall plume gleams, 

Beaten to fortress, strand, and bark, 
And where the king stands crowned in Rheims, 
At the high altar o'er him gleams 

The banner of Joan of Arc ! 



Then to her flocks she asked to go ; 

Perhaps some good young man to wed, 
And see her children manlier grow, 

Than they whom she inspirited ; 
But other toils for her remain : 

The robber-band, with traitors dark, 
Swept up the red bridge of Compeigne, 
"Where, like an angel mid the slain. 

Stood to the last Joan of Arc ! 



Shame on her jealous barons' fears ! 

Falls the portcullis, bronzed and brown ; 
Shame on Burgundy's halberdiers. 

That in the. postern strike her down ! 



68 POEMS. 

They sell her to that robber race, 

"With hearts like money, cold and cark, 
And fettered in the dungeon place, 
The ruffian soldiers kiss the face, 
The sweet face of Joan of Arc ! 



Here, where the plashing fountain stands. 

They pile the faggots round her throne ; 
She prays alwa}^, with clasped hands. 

But to the crucifix alone ; 
And by the flames that scorch her breast, 

Her heroism high they mark. 
France holds her memory every blest, 
And we, who live far in the West, 

Thrill when we name Joan of Arc ! 



POEMS. 69 



PRINCESS TROUBETZKOI. 

Dear, 'tis fifteen years of exile, — 

You are wearier than I ; 
Love to me is more than country. 

But your country makes you sigh. 
On your bosom all the Russias 

Still to me a Prince you are, 
And our children in Siberia 

Are more haughty than the Czar. 

Chide me not, that thus I made them 

Voluntary serfs with me ; 
Though all Europe should upbraid them. 

Cold and beaten, they are free ! 
Free to hate the throne you challenged. 

Stern, howe'er may fortune flout, 
Terrible in their untameness, 

Toughened by the blood}'^ knout. 

In their savage souls I fasten 

Day and night, the vision brief 
Of young Rylief on the gibbet. 

And the corpse of Mouravieff ; 
How j'our epaulettes were trampled, 

Freedom still your chiefest fault, 
And the cannon found no craven 

In the glorious revolt. 



70 POEMS . 

To these Arctic stars they mutter 

When the guards are deaf with cold ; 
They shall make revenge tradition, 

Fresh when we are stiff and old ; 
And the hordes their loins shall quicken, 

Back shall visit Russia's sins, 
Bursting on the startled Baltic, — 

Asia's endless Jacobins ! 



Dwelling in the cloud of thunder, 

By the blaze of Northern Lights, 
Let our forges work unceasing 

Bolts, to break o'er Ural's heights ; 
While corruption through the Empire 

Eats its vast and noiseless way, 
And the shrieks of women echo 

To the Cossacks' dull hourra. 

O ray Prince ! 5'our eyes are saddened. 

Thus to see the lips j'ou kissed 
In the redness of the Virgin, 

Rail so wildl}'' whilst you list ; 
But so ragged and so railing, 

Midst men's only murmuring. 
Hungry mothers in the palace 

Smote the King's wife and the King. 

Hence, of all but love unsexed, — 

To ray castle free to go. 
Where my jewels burst their caskets 

With the long-imprisoned glow, — 



POEMS. 71 



To the great God thus once bending, 
God forbid I be reprieved ! 

Give, O God ! one generation 
Like the boys I have conceived I 



MICHIE'S FARM.* 

Alas ! for the pleasant peace we knew 

In the happy summers of long ago, 
"When the rivers were briglit, and the skies were blue, 

By the homes of Henrico ; 
We dreamed of wars that were far away. 

And read, as in fable, of blood that ran 
Where the James and Chickahorainy stray, 

Through the graves of Powhattan. 

'Tis a dream come true, for the afternoons 

Blow bugles of war by our fields of grain, 
And the sabres clink as the dark dragoons 

Come galloping up the lane ; 
The pigeons have flown from the eaves and tiles, 

The oat-blades have grown to blades of steel, 
And the Huns swarm down the leafy aisles 

Of the grand old commonweal ! 

* Written in the album of a fugitive lady, at a farm-houso on the Chicka- 
hominy River. 



72 POEMS. 

They have torn the Indian fisher's nets 

"Where flows the Pamunkey toward the sea, 
And blood runs red in the rivulets 

That babbled and brawled in glee ; 
The corpses are strewn in Fair Oak glades, 

The hoarse guns thunder from Drury's Ridge ; 
And the fishes, that played in the cool, deep shades. 

Are frightened from Bottom Bridge. 



I would that the year were blotted away, 

And the strawberries grew in the hedge again ; 
That the scythe might swing in the wavy hay. 

And the squirrel romp in the glen, — 
The walnuts sprinkle the clover slopes. 

Where graze the sheep and the spotted steer, 
And the winter restore the golden hopes 

That were trampled in a j^ear ! 



POEMS. 73 



PITTSBURG. 

In the cleft of thy great left hand, 

Mississippi ! reached out to the deep, 
Swart, and sweaty-, and tanned, 

And clasping the mountain steep, 
This city, a wedding-ring, 

With God in the thunders for priest, 
Thou givest the first of thy brides 

And mother of cities, the East ! 

'Tis a bastion no more but in story, 

A trophy no more, but a dower ; 
They have vanished, — the scars of its glory, 

In the visible frown of its power. 
The bloodstone, red-veined by the martyrs. 

When Braddock went down to Beaujeu, 
Is black as the jet of its caverns, 

That scorches the stars of its blue. 

The mighty arena of ridges, 

Looks down at the sacrament rites ; 
Down the wizard perspective of bridges. 

Leap red the hymeneal lights. 
From the gulfs of the globe and the fountains 

Swim the monsters of steam to be guests, 
And, sliding the slopes of the mountains. 

The giants bring gifts o'er the crests. 



74 POEMS. 

Aroused hy the axe from its slumber, 

The great Apalachian spine 
Shakes down to the rivers its lumber, 

And scatters the fire from the mine. 
The rains, lifting up the long rivers, 

Bear heartily onward the spoil ; 
The iron that melts for the dancing, 

Smooth-kissed by the bountiful oil. 

The dance, it is never to finish ; 

The dancers are never to tire. 
So long as there's pulse in the water. 

Or soul in the glow of the fire ; 
The tune, — it is more than a measure ; 

The dance, — does it naught but amuse ? 
The feet that slip deftly to pleasure 

Slip also to generous use. 

They fashion the broadaxe edges 

That shall fiddle the forests to light, 
And the billion tingling rivets 

That shall bind the roof-tree tight ; 
To the quickstep of their forges 

Spins into highways the ore. 
And the great black cannons thunder, 

Like a roused nation's roar. 



So, with this grimy mosaic, 
Volcanite, lava, and steel. 

No stake of contending empires, 
But carved with our eagle-seal, 



POEMS. 75 

The great West weds the ocean, 

In a union never to tire, 
Till the heavens and the earth, like a parchment, 

Roll together with fervent fire ! 



VENUS DE MILO. 

We tremble, thus alone, 

Thy wondrous loveliness, O shape ! to see : 
We dare not worship images of stone, 

But must bow down to Thee. 

Thou art not all of clay ; 

On those clear ej'cs and placid braids of thine 
Two thousand years of dust and darkness lay : 

Thou rulest yet, divine ! 

O golden times and lands. 

When Love in marble breathed its sweet decrees ! 
Who shall replace thy mutilated hands. 

Or smooth thy draperies ? 

Not in thy mien are caught 

Such charms as hearts of boys or gallants fill ; 
The passion thou inspirest is a thought 

Exquisite as its thrill. 



76 POEMS. 

Dear Foundling beautiful ! 

Immortal in achievement as in soul, - 
Hewn in some instant touch of miracle 

That on thy sculptor stole, — 



The jealous Gods in ire 

Received thee as their equal to thy state. 
And banished him who, breathing at their fire, 

A Goddess dared create. 



Nameless to-day is he. 

His deathless sacrilege adjudged this shame. 
Endless, — the glory of his art to see. 

And then to lose Thy fame ! 



POEMS . 77 



COUNTRY CHRISTMAS. 

Heap up the tabic ! till, as in the fable, 

The boj'S aud girls are fat enough to kill ; 
Bid the dusky Circe, in her smoking turkey, 

The crushed hearts of the juic}' scarlet berries to instil ; 
Let his brown lips grapple the plumpest pippin-apple — 

That roasted pig so motionless upon the trencher blue — 
And on the wild-duck's pinion, exhort the kitchen-minion 

Her whitest stalks of celery transparently to strew. 

Drain down the cider ! Spread the cover wider ! 

Let none go erapt}^, who have passed the door ; 
On the chiranej'-fire, higher j'ct, and higher, 

The pitchj'-pine logs pile until the flames begin to roar. 
O'er the hearth the holly makes melanchol}' foil}' ; 

The chestnuts chirrup to themselves down in the ashes 
gray ; 
The cheeks of every bumpkin grow mellow as a pumpkin 

To see his dimples in his sweetheart's lashes hid away. 



Stir well the toddj^ ! let a jolly body 

Aver that Christmas comes but once a year ! 

Rise, each lass and suitor ! clink the brimming pewter, 
And round the blazing cedar toast old Winter, King 
austere, 



78 POEMS. 

To the soldier's booty, the shapely maiden's beautj'", 

The sailor in the frosty watch, a-swinging 'neath the star. 

The parson 'neath the steeple a-marrying the people, 

The tattered flags that lead our boys into the jaws of war. 

Hark ! 'tis the fiddle ; stand him in the middle — 

That one-orbed Orpheus — that his twanging bow 
Shall excite to feeling shadows on the ceiling, 

Until, like doppelgangers, dance they with us folk below ; 
Though the hearth-dog bellow, more close each bashful 
fellow 
Shall fold his dainty lady to the breast so oft she thrills ; 
The glad old folks, in wonder, down look as the young feet 
thunder down, 
As on the merry running stream look down the whiten- 
ing hills. 

Silence ! old Nestor, and your tired orchestra. — 

We'll have the games that smack of bolder bliss, — 
"Thimble," and "The Flagon," "Pawns," and "Copen- 
hagen." 
The old folks are so fast asleep they cannot see us kiss. 
Hark ! the clock peals midnight, — adieu to all and good- 
night ; 
And in the warm sleigh as we make our faithful plight 
again. 
The stars their beaming faces turn upon our embraces, 
And thrill us with the memory of Christ come down to 
men ! 



POEMS, 



79 



CAMP CHRISTMAS. 

Pale in the distance lingers the light aglow, 
Half with the moorland mingle the sedgy tents, 
But a low murmur comes from the regiments, 
And from the outer post rings in a light hallo. 

Bubbles the tinkling rill, 

Drowsily down the hill, 

And a lone whip-poo'-will 
Singeth her monotone, sleepilj^ sadly — 

Was it a foot that strode 

Lonesomely down the road ? 

"Was it a hoof that trode, 
Spurred by some loiterer, recklessly, madly? 



How lulls the music, far off and faintly ! 

Gray grows the mountain, dark droops the cedar ; 
Beautiful sleep to the wan ones that need her 
Steals like a phantom on, stately and saintly ; 

Rumbles the last tattoo — 

Darken the tapers blue — 

And the dim thickets through 
Down comes the sentinel, stealthy and solemn — 

Christ ! may the jaded rest 

As on a bride's j'oung breast. 

Ere through the glowering west 
Shrieking, the pickets rush, rousing the column. 



80 POEMS. 

Hist ! 'tis the stallion, neighing so ruthly ; 

Ha ! 'tis the teamster's snore, measured and shrilly ; 
Hark ! 'tis the owlet's howl in the night stilly ; 
Halt ! 'tis a friendl^^ form, loyal and truthly ! 

See ! the white starlets peep. 

Climbs the pale moon the steep ; 

And in the blessed sleep 
None fear bayonet, bullet, or sabre ; 

While over many a face 

Soft shadows steal apace, 

As in the homestead-place 
Love kissed the vagrant eyes weary with labor. 



Drip ! on the coverlet raindrops fall dearthly. 

How the wind moans to-night, witch-like and dismal ! 
See ! through the darkness, drear and abj'smal, 
How flare the camp-fires, red and unearthly ! 

Crouching the faggots by, 

Watching the embers die, 

Weary of brain and e3'e. 
None see the fevered bo}^ chatter and shiver, 

None see the sails that stray 

Down in the wind and spray. 

Bearing to far away 
Hearts, oh ! as lashed and lone as the chafed river. 



Oh, the dear hearths and homes wan in the dun day, 
Oh, the prim meeting-house, still as a funeral. 
Where, in the long-ago, private and general 

Sang the same hymns of peace on the same Sunday. 



POEMS. 81 

Shall the old waltz no more 

Ring down the Christmas floor — 

Nor the brown cider pour 
Over the tankard, bubbling and gleaming? 

Never shall these remain 

Till over land and main 

Floats our old flag again — 
Star unto star aflame, fold to fold streaming ! 



ROANOKE. 

Fair island, by the calm blue sound ! 

Where high th}^ pines their branches sway, 
And make low melodies, all day, 

To lull the slumbers of the drowned. 

The sea-gull screams along thy strand, 
To mock the vulture and the crow, 
And lonesomely the wreckers go 

Down the long aisles of silver sand. 

There are no sails across the bar. 
Where is the fisherman's canoe. 
And all the cunning nets he drew. 

Before the blighting of the war ? 

No more the hounds and hunters come. 
To chase the wild deer from the oak. 

For desolation, sere and dumb. 
Sits in the homes of Roanoke. 
6 



82 POEMS. 

She, first of all my sanguine race, 

Here found a birthplace and a grave ; * 

Her father came too late to save, 
He met no welcome and no trace ; 
And vainly rode the anguished carle, 

For so the sole direction ran, 

Across the tide to Croatan, 
And searched the groves of Albemarle. 
Perhaps she wed some Indian Brave, 

And dusky children learned to know 

Far in the land of Manteo ; 
Or, famished, pacing by the wave, 
Where gazing wearily at morn 

She heard the far surf clash and croak 
The requiem of the golden corn. 

That never came to Roanoke. 



Thrice ploughed thy sand the English keel ; 

They turned their helm through Ocracock ; 

They perished by the tomahawk, 
The famine hand, the fever heel. 
The brave Sir Walter led the way ; 

He saw the blue smoke curling go 

Up from thy huts, Granganimo, 
Where the red Indian children play ; 
And swearing never to forget 

The faith he pledged the tawny chief, 

They smoked the first tobacco leaf, 
In the all-hallowed calumet. 

* Virginia Dare, the first white child born in the territory of the United 
States, perished on Roanoke island. 



POEMS. 83 



Alas ! for Christmas oath and plight, 
His holy vow the Briton broke, 

And murdered, in a single night. 
The native Lords of Roanoke ! 



The wild duck flocked the sound astir ; 

The bear looked out from Secotan ; 

They saw no living human man, 
But only where the ashes were ; 
And never more the yellow maize 

Flecked half the fields of Currituck ; 

The isle was sered by some ill luck 
Till after many weary days. 
Still might the squaw and hunter dwell, 

Nor had the pale-face need to go 

Far from the sunny Pamlico, 
If each but trusted each as well ; 
They spurn the pleasant homes they hold ; 

The old, old peace they ruthly broke, 
And wandered vainly after gold 

Far up the stream of Roanoke. 



Those savage times have waned apace ; 

The piny isle no red men tread ; 

Their wigwams and their wives are dead, 
And war has blackened all the place. 
For treason left its thousand farms. 

And broke the calumet in twain. 

And called across the stormy main 
A host of loyal men at arms. 



84 POEMS. 

Thy pines DeMonteil's death bemoan ; 

Thj surge brave Russell's requiem measures ; 

And, delving for forbidden treasures, 
Thy traitors dig but skull and bone. 
Two awful daj-s the foenien met. 

And when the third all glorious woke, 
The spangled flag we worship yet 

Curled all its stripes o'er Roanoke ! 

The corpse half hidden in the sand ; 

The far-off friends that wait the shock ; 

The raven brooding on the rock ; 
The hungry sky ; the lonesome land ; 
The blood ; the tears ; the sons ; the sires, — 

Ah ! these too well the triumph note, 

While ringing from the nation's throat 
Acclaims that quench its funeral pyres ! 
We laugh and Aveep all unawares, — 

The flag above, the dead beneath. 

The sabre dripping in its sheath. 
And on our lips dear household prayers. 
See mercy in the arms of fear ! 

My God ! this curse of blood revoke ! 
May every loyal Northern spear 

Be nerved by news from Roanoke ! 



POEMS. 85 



LITTLE GRISETTE. 

Little Grisette, you haunt me j^et ; 

My passion for you was long ago, 

Before my head was heav}' with snow, 
Or mine eye had lost its lustre of jet. 
In the dim old Quartier Latin we met ; 

We made our plight one night in June, 

And all our life was honeymoon ; 
We did not ask if it were sin, 

We did not go to kirk to know, 
We only loved and let the world 

Hum on its pelfish way below ; 
Marked from our castle in the air, 

How pigmy its triumphal cars : 
Eight stages from the entry stair, 

But near the stars ! 

Little Grisette, rich or in debt. 

We were too fond to chide or sigh, — 
Never so poor that I could not buy 

A sweet, sweet kiss, from my little Grisette. 

If I could nothing gain or get. 

By hook, or crook, or song, or story. 
Along the starving road to glory, 

I marvelled how your nimble thimble. 
As to a tune, danced fast and fleeting. 

And stopped mj' pen to catch the music. 
But only heard my heart a-beating ; 



86 POEMS. 

The quaint old roofs and gables airy 

Flung down the light for you to wear it, 

And made my love a queen in faery, 
To haunt my garret. 

Little Grisette, the meals you set 

"Were sweeter to me than banquet feast ; 

Your face was a blessing fit for a priest ; 
At 3'our smile the candle went out in a pet ; 
The wonderful chops I shall never forget ! 

If the wine was a trifle too sharp or rank, 

We kissed each time before we drank. 
The old gilt clock, e'er wrong, was swinging ; 

The waxed floor your feet reflected ; 
And dear Baranger's chansons singing, 

You tricked at plcquet till detected. 
You fill my pipe ; — is it 3'our ej-es 

Whereat I light your cigarette? 
On all but me the darkness lies 

And my Grisette ! 

Little Grisette, the soft sunset 

Lingered a long while, that we might stay 
To mark the Seine from the breezy quay 

Around the bridges foam and fret ; 

How came it that 3'Our eyes were wet, 
When I ambitiously would be, 
A man renowned across the sea? 

I told you I should come again, — 

It was but half way round the globe, — 

To bring you diamonds for j^our faith. 
And for j-our gray a silken robe : 



POEMS. 87 

You were more wise than lovers are ; 

I meant, Sweetheart, to tell you true, 
I said a tearful " Au Mevoir;" 

You said : Adieu I 

Little Grisette, we both regret. 

For I am wedded more than wived ; 

Those careless days in thought revived 
But teach me I cannot forget. 
Perhaps old age must pa}'^ the debt 

Young sin contracted long ago, — 

I onl}"^ know, I only know, 
That phantoms haunt me everywhere 

By busy day, in peopled gloam, — 
They rise between me and my prayer, 

They mar the holiness of home ! 
My wife is proud, my boy is cold, 

I dare not speak of what I fret : 
'Tis my old sin with thee I fold, 

Little Grisette ! 



88 POEMS. 



THE VOLUNTEER'S WIFE. 

WOMEN who have lovers, behold what I have known, 
To be married in the twilight — in the darkness be alone ; 
To sit beside my window, when the clouds blot out the 

arch, 
And think how long my heart must wait while he is on the 
march. 

"We were wedded at the Fountain, beneath the open sky, 
And grouped amid the maple-boughs, the regiment stood 

by; 

Their baj'onets flashed brightly, beneath a soft, pale 

moon. 
And a file of handsome drummer lads struck up a pleasant 

tune. 

He took my moist, hot hand in his, as he had done before ; 
And the parson's talk was low and sweet, like some dear 
voice of j^ore ; 

1 seemed to be a girl again — the wedding was a spell — 
And hardly knew what words were said — 'twas like a 

funeral ! 

How like a mockery it seemed — the formulary part : 
They asked me would I love him? — I looked into my 
heart ! 



POEMS. 89 

Would I obey ? Had he not gone at the summons stern 

and grim ? 
And honor ? "Was there woman who could not honor him ? 



Some loud cheers broke the stillness : it was our wed- 
ding peal. 

I was folded to his belted blouse, the marriage rite to 
seal. 

A score pressed up to shake his hand, and cheer the sol- 
dier's wife — 

Their hurried compliments were drowned : I heard the 
drum and fife. 



He wrung my hand, and whispered — he kissed me once 

again : 
A harsh, hard voice ran down the ranks, of " Fall in ! fall 

in, men ! " 
I buckled on his knapsack, — its weight was like a rock, — 
And as I gave his musket, some tears ran down the 

stock. 



He said : " Good-by, Maria ! " My throat was hard and 
dry ; 

He said that I should write to him — I could not make 
reply ; 

But when he stood amid the lines, I felt my pulses leap- 
ing: 

Why should a soldier's wife be dumb, and shame his flag 
by weeping? ^^ 



90 POEMS. 

The band struck up a glorious air : my thoughts were sad 

and bitter ; 
And, tramping down the leafy aisles, I saw the bayonets 

glitter ; 
He might have turned his head again, biit I was blind with 

sobbing : 
The fountain tinkled on the night — I heard the music 

throbbing. 



They vanished in the dusky light ; how wild the streets 

with rattle ! 
'Tis well for those to wave their hats who send no loves 

to battle ! 
I think, when all the war is done, and still the nation free, 
If, in the scattered regiment, he shall come back to me ? 



If still the sandy locks shall nod above his eye so blue? 
If still his step shall be as proud, his love as frank and 

true ? 
Perhaps, amid the battered few that tramp behind the 

drum. 
One day unto my father's door a crippled man shall come. 



Perhaps, amid my tears some morn the tidings I may spell, 
Amid victorious returns, of one who fought and fell ; 
Who lay amid the mangled heaps, where blood ran like a 

sea, 
And pressed his hand upon his heart, and, dying, spoke of 

me. 



POEMS. 91 

Then, women who have husbands will tell of glorious wars, 
And honor him that bravely fell beneath the Stripes and 

Stars ; 
And I shall hug my widow's weeds, while life shall ebb 

apace. 
And mark upon no child of mine the hue of his dear face. 

But all my dreams still hear the drums that beat our wed- 
ding peal, 
The tinkle of the falling spra^', the clink of sabre steel. 
The music of his sad farewell, the kiss before he went. 
The flutter of the silken flag above the regiment. 



No coward mark rests on him ; his duty called him forth ! 
The eagle led him Southward from her ej-rie in the North ! 
He threw his body in the breach : the flag went on before ; 
And his wife shall love him better that he loved his country 
more ! 



92 POEMS. 



WILD-CAT JUNCTION. 

I. 

A WOMAN in a calico dress, who smokes her pipe as she 

sits ; 
A hairy man, in a slouched hat, who whittles and yawns 

and spits ; 
A travelling Jew, asleep by the stove, with his head on a 

carpet-bag ; 
And the wind a-cursing out of doors like a child-forsaken 

hag. 

n. 

Two railroads chased across a moor, by a ghastly lantern's 
gleam ; 

The "bob-tail" train gone howling away like half of a 
nightmare dream : 

The naked station caught between, in the junction's iron 
vice. 

And one stark gin-mill over the way, with Hoosiers throw- 
ing dice. 

III. 

I sit in heathen awe, and muse: the Night Express is 

late ; 
Crunched bloodilj^ perhaps, afar, against some dawdling 

freight ; 



POEMS. 93 

Or down some yielding trestle-bridge shot in some river's 

ooze, 
To give some wild-cat journalist a bite of morning news. 

IV. 

God help the brave and sallow folk who farm this western 

waste ! 
The young men withered with the chills ; the young girls, 

weary-faced ; 
The savage children chasing down the lean, lank geese and 

pigs ; 

The gaunt wife scolding her old man, who mopes and 
swears and swigs. 

V. 

How lone the cracked and parched world, save when the 
trains go by ! 

How lone the river-beds, so broad, scorched up, and scooped 

and drj' ! 
How lone the flat, shorn fields of stalks, bestrewn with 

stump and chunk ! 
Hovv lone the scrubbj^ woods, that know no sat3'r but the 

skunk ! 

VI. 

All year the hutted homes look down the rutted roads of 

slough ; 
All life, the stunted shaggy nags, dejected, mounch and 

plough ; 
The plank towns, pitched at random, seem to their crude 

spires to say : 
" O God, it is our destiny and slavery to pray ! " 



94 POEMS. 



ni. 



Hard lines of cunning avarice the strong men's faces rift, 
And garbs and tables primitive and desperate with thrift, 
Show life, like all the landscapes, stark and starveling as 

the scope 
Of souls immortal, by their greed, but ignorant of hope ! 

vm. 

Still midst these bare-legged folks, perhaps, grew up some 

wondrous men, 
As grows some silver poplar shaft deep in some dogwood 

fen ; 
Some Crockett heard his mother sing in yonder crone's 

shrill croon. 
In yonder lank-haired giant burns the soul of Daniel 

Boone. 

ES. 

Here Lincoln, with his jaundiced face, hoed corn to buj' his 

shoes ; 
Miraculous intelligence ! that he could read the news, 
When once a month the papers came, and round about to 

list. 
The neighbors cheered to hear how hung some abolitionist. 

X. 

He wore his Sunday bob-tail coat, when twice a year, for 

suits. 
The Judge came up to hold the Court (upon the bench his 

boots), 



POEMS. 95 

And in his shirt-sleeves told the law, and spit a slimy 

peck, 
The while he said: "Be taken hence and hanged by the 

neck." 



zi. 

Corn-dodgers dipped in maple-juice he ate with thankful- 
ness ; 

An ox-steak when the Preacher came the family to bless ; 

Rye coffee with molasses sweet ; (he never used a fork 

But with his knife ten months a 3'ear, poked down the 
salted pork.) 

xn. 

Still, like old Bunyan's vision, seen o'er Bedford Prison's 

gate, 
He saw out of this poverty the highways of the state ; 
The pilgrimage of Christendom from bondage to the 

light. 
And Slavery's pack fall from the back of lands that seek 

the right. 

XIII. 

Husks filled his belly, but he saw his father's house afar. 
A shepherd on a lonel}' moor, he watched the Master's 

star. 
And not by dainty hands in kid the shackles fell to rust. 
But warty, horny, were the pxilms that made the Nation 

just. 



96 POEMS. 

XIV. 

still in his homely Hoosier phrase, he talked the armies 

on. 
The same old puckered face looked out, Columbus-like, for 

dawn. 
We waited for some courtly Christ to draw the sting from 

death, 
And, lo, the promised man arose in lowly Nazareth ! 

XV. 

O West, take heed that in your wealth your leaner 

dreams come true I 
The hopefulness of all the poor is delegate to 3' ou. 
Speak ! from your golden valley vast ! Swear ! by j'^our 

father's dust. 
The West that made the Nation free shall make the Nation 

just! 



POEMS. 97 



PAUL ON THE HELLESPONT, 

From Japhet, when Shem was a j'eoman, 

And Canaan reviled, 
Till to-daj% when the world is all Roman, 

And Judah a wild, 
By the verge of this sea 
There was never a beggar like me. 

The Kings of all Asia beside me 

Arise in their might ; 
Their galleys and banners deride me, 

Their camps blaze with light ; 
I am footsore and tried. 
And the ferry is stormy and wide. 

My purse it is rent like my raiment ; 

My soldiers arc two ; 
For the ferryman, Heaven be his pa^^ment ! 

M}^ tent. Heaven's blue ! 
But the conquests we seek 
Are the glorified lands of the Greek. 

They are wisest and purest of races, — 

The Lords of the Arts ; 
Like the statues of gods are their faces ; — 

We aim at their hearts ; 
All our art is a cross. 
And our gospel but sorrow and loss. 
7 



Qg P O E MS . 

But our tongues they are laden with wonder ; 

Our pain shall be sweet ; 
Lord Christ, who has walked on the thunder, 

Will buo.y our feet. 
On the mountain of Mars 
We shall plead by our stake with His scars. 

Where the marbles of Phidias whiten 

The temples of Jove, 
The image they ravished shall brighten 

The isles with His love ; 
All their lore be His shame, 
And the Csesars shall rule in His name. 

To His birthplace shall stroll for His glory 

Philosophy hoar ; 
Architecture shall sculpture His story, 

And plant to adore, 
In the Parthenon's eaves. 
The cross that was set between thieves. 

My brethren, perhaps in that vision, 

On earth as in bliss. 
The Gentiles may place, for this mission, 

Our faces by His ! 
Oh ! I weary to wait. 
Lo ! a sail. Let us pass o'er the strait ! 



POEMS. 99 



THE GREAT BAPTISM. 

The genius of oui- Empire looked one noon, 

Wiicre, flushed with sunlight, sparkled peak and sea. 

River, and plain, and forest, all atune, — 

Throbbing and thrilling in each artery, — 

Gaunt cataracts, impatient to be free, 

Great lakes, like oceans, that lay prone and seething, 

And wildernesses, where the storms were breathing, 

And clifls, whose arms reach where the heavens be. 

" This power and populousness," murmured she, 
" Must be historic, and the new baptism 
Of war descend upon it ; feud and schism 
Shall override these valleys, down these hills 
Blood dig new channels for its smoking rills, 
And the blue skj' grow haz}'-, where the slain 
Die, cursing in the bitterness of pain. 
These rivers, that go sluggish to the main, 
Bearing upon their bosoms kine and grain, 
Shall float leviathans, whose frowning ports 
Will speak in thunder to a hundred forts, 
And hurrying from their sleep}'' tillages, 
The yeomanry shall rally in these villages. 
And hear a music that they never knew, — 
The shrilly fife that throbbed at Agincourt 
And thrilled the thousands on the field of Tours, 
The deathless drum that beat at Waterloo ! 



100 POEMS. 

" My empire shall not be a tame arra}^ 

Of paltry towns and peaceful downs and moors, 

Where, though the loitering summer, clowns and boors 

Go slow a-field to sickle in the hay — 

A valorous race, whose fame will reach away, 

To shame of older clans and climes the glory, 

Shall make a grand and monumental story, 

To be remembered till the world grows gray ! 

Pilgrims shall hither through the ages stray, 

To mark the sites where hordes fell rash and fated. 

No land is great till rent and consecrated ! " 

Forthwith she strewed her dragon teeth adowa 

The Carolinian meadows. In a trice 

Armed men sprang up amid the corn and rice. 

And seized on fortress, arsenal, and town ; 

She scattered them, where vigorous and brown, 

The Texan marked his spotted cattle graze. 

And by the light of villages ablaze 

Mustered a thousand bayonets and sabres ; 

And where the negro in the cotton-groves 

Sat down at eve to eat his yellow loaves. 

The Alabamian roused his sons and neighbors ; 

The Georgian hills were black. Oh, fate, not reason — 

Louisiana faltered in obedience ; 

And, wavering for a moment in allegiance. 

The Old Dominion rushed into the treason. 

An awful pause ! Half terror, half in wonder, 
The moon glared blue ; the very ocean lay 
Dumb and in dread ; the grave-clothes stirred their day ; 
Then broke from Charleston bay the first deep peal of 
thunder ! 



POEMS. 101 

Massachusetts, hallowed be for a3'e 

Thy sturdy heart that never throbbed in vain ! 

And be the forests and the streams of Maine 

Blessed forever ! terrible and gaunt 

The mountaineers of Hampshire and Vermont 

Poured from their ej'ries, half way in the sk}', 

Down where Long Island Sound lifts up its calm blue eye. 

Thy empire, York ! and Penn's, were all aflame ; 
There was no hamlet where the drum beat not, 
No fireside, but, desperate and hot, 
Some son or father felt the glow of shame. 
And buckled on his sword and breathed his mother's 
name. 

The prairies rang : Ohio raised her hand 

With Illinois, to wipe away the guilt ; 

The sword should drip in carnage to the hilt. 

And every roof-thatch be a beacon brand. 

At each Iowa hearth stood stern a mailed man ; 

Young Kansas knelt in wrath, and swore with Michigan ! 

A wall of flame blazed up the border-line ; 

A thousand camp-fires lit the midnight sky ; 

The white tents glistened in the trampled rye ; 

An armed man replaced each ash and pine ; 

The trooper rode where erst had grazed his kine ; 

The barlej'-blades grew up to bayonets ; 

A navy tore the frightened fisher's nets ; 

A crusade swarmed across each mount and moor ; 

Their fane to rescue by Potomac's shore. 

The first great Hearts beat out at Baltimore. 



102 POEMS. 

Oh, zeal too rash ! oh, treason too profound ! 

Oh, patient King ! oh, strong and snbtile Warwick ! 

Oh, quiet plains that blood has made historic ! 

Oh, simple hearts that valor has renowned ! 

Oh, carnivals where vulture gorged with hound ! 

Oh, martjTdoms where yet the relics bleach ! 

Oh, agonies that words can never reach ! 

Oh, heroisms that must ever thrill ! 

The brook is red that flows by Centreville ; 

The Leesburg bluffs are ghostly in the dun, 

A thousand spectres stalk by Arlington ; 

The fires are lurid on the haunted hill. 

Where Lyon's lordly name brings tears and terrors still. 

How sank the right ! how treason flushed and vaunted ! 
We had no country and the slave no hope ! 
Where slept the sword that in the erst could cope 
With grander tyrannies, whose banners flaunted 
Over the Empires where its chieftains led ? 

A deep repl}' came up from Hilton Head ; 
From stormy Hatteras the answer broke, 
And echoed down the strand of Roanoke, 
And broke in thunder on the Cumberland? 
And vengeance trembled on the lips of law, 
Where Tennessee raised her ungyved hand, 
And Sigel broke the chains of Arkansaw ! 

We have made history ! ourselves have done it, 

And begged no help from Emperors and Peers ; 

Thrown our own gauntlet down, crossed sword and won it, 

Called from our own sweet vales these volunteers, 

And fed them with our golden sheaves and ears. 



POEMS. 103 

The rills obscure, that sang the livelong j-ear 
So lonesomely that none were known to hear ; 
The mill roads, where the weeds choked up the tracks, 
And stopped the ox-cart ; and the patch of pines 
Where never within memory rang the axe, 
But ever through the seasons brays and whines 
The gust, that stirs the reed tops in the fens ; 
The hidden cottages in shad}'- glens ; 
The sleepy cross-road, where the sign-post gleams, 
And boors beside the well-trough rein their teams ; 
The village, only known in county maps. 
Where never a murder happened through the ages. 
And twice a week the mails came down in stages, 
And life was a succession of short naps : 
These have been made world-famous ; populaces 
Shall visit them for aye as storied places ; 
The Czar shall mention them upon his throne, 
And seamen, that keep watches of cold nights. 
Couple them with long marches and great fights ; 
The antiquary treasure bits of bone 
Picked up, at ploughing, by some grinning clown, 
Who quoth: "How great a graveyard to so small a 
town ! " 



Hereafter come romances, for our themes 
Are prouder than the Trojans or the Gauls. 
We have our Davids, Jonathans, and Sauls, 
Whose deeds will cover folios and reams. 
Where every dusty rail-car screams and steams, 
Look out on battle-plains and monuments ! 
And any surplus shillings, dimes, and pence. 



104 POEMS. 

Keep for the urcliiii's lint 3'ou stumble over — 
His grandsire fciight at Pittsburg and at Dover ! 

Not yet, my heart ! the thousands still contending 

Forbid the hope that half the world confesses ; 

The eagle strains and gnaws his yielding Jessies : 

A moment more — he shall be heavenward wending, 

And all our stars in the same azure blending. 

Break, then, these sabres ! strike the iron mail 

From every hull, and let these bristling marts 

Be gentle havens for the gentler arts. 

Where commerce sleeps beneath each whitening sail. 

And labor walks with love in every vale. 

"Where gleam these tents, let patient herds go lowing, 

And nod on every slope their golden fleece ; 
Subdue the storms so long and wanton blowing, 

And usher in the day of perfect peace ! 



POEMS. 105 



SHIPS OF THE AZTECS. 

Soldier of the stronger neighbor ! 

When your conquering sails 3'ou loose, 
And behind the white Sierra 

Fall the towers of Vera Cruz, 
Pause upon the porphyry' ledges, 

While 3'our standards downward go, — 
Glowing like the golden valley ; 

Though you seek it as a foe, — 
And remember her misfortunes, 

As you gaze at Mexico. 

Ere your race had learned the prattle 

That your babes at home renew. 
Shone her spires, as far and blazing, 

Slept her lakes as warm and blue ; 
To and fro her flaming armies 

To the zone's dominion wound. 
On her purple hills the Monarchs 

Loitered, softly and discrowned. 
And on changing creeds and masters 

The unchanging mountains frowned. 

Dead as Popocatapetl 

Is her last high-hearted race ; 

Shrunken like the Lake Tezcuco 
Are the tribes that fill their place ; 



106 roEMS. 

Else, perchance, j'onr spears were beaten, 
Ere the lava peaks they crossed, 

And no Christian songs ascended 
Oriziba's scarp of frost. 

Soldier ! hearken, by what blindness 
The round slobe the Aztec lost : 



Throned beneath the sacred cactus, 

And the circling eagle beaks. 
Sat in state the Montezuma, 

Midst his nobles and caciques ; 
With a mitred crown upon him, 

And the humming-bird's attire, 
And the fairest brides of Princes 

Tribute to his proud desire. 
In his hand a golden arrow 

At his wishes shot to fire. 

From the throng a young man started, 

At the King's feet thus to speak, — 
Thought and vigil showed their shadows 

In the fluslied tints of his cheek, — 
" O my monarch — more than monarch ! 

O my countryman ! I sue 
Oat of all J' our wealth and people 

But to give me one canoe ; 
And to sail beyond the sunrise 

Ten brave men to be its crew. 

" I am Altazo, the scholar. 

From the great sea's parched plain, 
Wliere the indigo plantations 

Burn before the hurricane ; 



POEMS. 107 

B}' my starrj' computations 

To a deep conviction brought, 
By strange shapes in the horizon, 

And the talk of waters, taught, 
There be lands beyond the billo^Y3 

To the East, unseen, unsought ! 

" Haste to seize them and their secrets ! 

Lest their secrets seek j-ou first. 
Be the prize to who discovers. 

And the gain to him who durst. 
Not alone to one perception 

Heaven revealed this mystery." 
Then caciques and courtiers, gaping, 

Smote their hips, and roared with glee, 
And the Montezuma thundered : — 

" Drown this dreamer in his sea ! " 

Winding up the temple's summit, 

Where eternal fires arise 
From a thousand boulder altars. 

Red with human sacrifice. 
And in hieroglyphic garments 

Hoarse the hoary priests defiled, 
Altazo in prayer entreated 

For his voyage, strange and wild, — 
But the very captives, dying, 

With the high priests sneered and smiled. 

Ten long years at court entreating ; 

Ten he toiled the church to crave ; 
Altazo grew gray with waiting ; 

Still with spirit, fresh and brave, 



108 POEMS. 

Down the empire, midst the people, 
Yet ten pleading 3'ears he strolled, 

Sa^'ing to the mighty merchants : — 
" Lend me of 3^our quills of gold ! " 

But his ship came never nearer. 
And his heart was sad and old. 

Then he said : " Ten years are left me : 

Life is lost in begging aid ; 
These old hands shall hew a vessel 

From the humid ever glade ! " 
To the chapparel descending, 

Where the lordly live oak threw 
Coolness on the liquid amber, 

And the mast-larch towered true, 
Patientlj^ he plied his hatchet, 

Keenly watched the ocean blue. 

So the ship from ancient purpose 

Rose to fair and buo^'ant fact ; 
From the great tribes to the Northward, 

Sailors of the cataract, 
Ten red captive slaves he purchased. 

And the sails filled round and light. 
" O my God ! what birds come 3^onder 

O'er the sea-rim, silver-bright, 
Speaking from their beaks of iron 

Thunder-smoke in feathery-white ? " 

" 'Tis the Air-God, Queltzalcoatal ! " 
Say the women and the priests. 

'Tis the grim fleet of the Spaniard ! 
'Tis the neigh of hoofed beast 1 



POEMS. 109 



'Tis the white man's soul of i^owder 
"With the storm-bolt in his bow ! 

Down his wings to music tumble ; 
Down his armed baro;es so. 

"Thou art lost, my tardy country ! " 
Burst the heart of Altazo. 

Up the slopes of cane and cocoa, 

Swift the plumes of Cortes toss. 
Crush his steeds the ripe bananas ; 

On the peaks he plants his cross : 
At the city gates his cannon 

Merchant, priest, and King accost, 
Fades the throne of Montezuma, 

Like the maize before the frost. 



Soldier, hearken, by what blindness 
The round globe the Aztec lost ! 



110 I OEMS 



THE CLOCK IN THE CAPITOL, 

Above the lintel of the door 

The clock still keeps the moments, where 

The legislators meet no more ; 
For now the stately hall is bare 
By night ; by day a thoroughfare. 



Quaint the conceit and exquisite : 
A Clio in a winged car, — 

Its wheel the dial, — who, upright, 
Keeps history as she flies afar, 
And fills her scroll from star to star. 



Long 3'ears ago the artist died, 
A rambler from a sunny clime ; 

This pendule ever was his pride ; 
And moving like an earnest rhyme, 
The infant state marched to its time. 



Its stroke the Speaker's gavel gave. 
Its tick the mighty crisis sped, 

Its cadences, like conscience, clave 
The silence, when the factious led, 
Or when the patriot sage fell dead. 



POEMS. Ill 

With listening poise its mistress met 
Tiie eye of startled knave or clown, 

Forever with her pencil set, 

And looking matron-judgment down, 
The demagogue shrank from her frown. 

Though now the hall is empt^- quite, 
And but its memories linger there. 

Still keeps the beauteous muse her flight, 
As if the echoes weighty were. 
And looks, and writes, though all is bare. 

Oh ! large or little men of st-^^-e. 

So sensitive to critic's quili ! 
Long after ye are out of date, 

And said 3'our last of good or ill. 

This history shall sift jq still ! 

And till the Clock of Time be spent, 
About 3'our haunts the Muse shall go. 

On its remorsless mission bent. 
Of what ye uttered there below. 
The hollow and the sound to show ! 



112 POEMS. 



ONONDAGA CASTLE. 

Like a coffin, long and narrow, for the funeral of their 
race, 

Stands the Onondaga Castle in the self-same, ancient 
place ; 

Twice three hundred years have perished since the council- 
fire began. 

And its edicts shook the forest, thundering like a Vatican. 



Slow the saline river gurgles, going onward to the lake ; 

Like a shroud the snow is folded on the thicket and tlie 
brake ; 

O'er the plain the hoary highlands count the cabins, less 
and less, 

"Where the Roman remnant lingers, dying with their wil- 
derness. 



Vainly ring the bells to win them ; vain the charities, the 

arts ; 
For a solemn instinct whispers in their unresisting hearts : 
" All your destinies are ended ; perished all your fathers' 

hopes 
With the moose upon the mountains, and the panther in 

the copse. 



POEMS. 113 

" Mighty nature was j^our empire ; 'tis a new creation 

come ! 
Tliough ye sacrifice forever, still 3'our deities are dumb. 
Fold your blankets round 3'our foreheads, and as stolidly 

expire 
As 3'our warrior fathers, smiling grimly in the white man's 
^fire." 



Round their ancient ark unbending, faithful to their stern 
compact. 

Squaw and sachem float serenely down the fiiteful cata- 
ract, 

Singing, as they go, traditions, hallowed as their prophets' 
graves, 

"When the years were full of glor}', and the nations were 
their slaves ; 



"When the hills were thick with wigwams, and the fields 

with maize were green. 
When the golden pumpkin ripened in the tendrils of the 

bean , 
And tlie deer, shot through 'with arrows, made the hunter's 

daily fare. 
Or the simple feast was sweetened with the haunches of 

the bear ; 



When the council-house was trembling with the voices of 

the wise. 
And the thunderous dance was highest round the solemn 

sacrifice ; 
8 



114 POEMS. 

"When the bark canoes went speeding down the blue haze 

of tlie lake, 
And the captives, shrill}^ chanting, trode the gauntlet to 

the stake. 



Still around the battered castle, when the starry midnights 

glow. 
Go the pageants of their splendor, ghostly in the silent 

snow ; 
Rings thy voice, Dekanissora, stirring as the eagle's 

scream. 

And the pleading Conyatouyou's, soft, persuasive, as a 

dream ; 



In the midst Tyendenaga hurls his hatchet down in ire ; 
Oundiaga, unrelenting, counts his scalplocks by the fire ; 
Mail-clad, lo ! Champlain besieging, sees his Hurons 

hurled back ; 
And the firelight stains the baffled face of hoary Fronte- 

nac ; 



Toying with his pagan mistress, see licentious Johnson 

sleep ; 
Blood3'-handed from "Wyoming, mark apostate Butler 

creep ; 
Roasting in the living embers, see Breboeuf on Jesus 

lean ; 
And, their white feet scorched with fire, die the virgins of 

Lachine. 



roEMS. 115 

Still, no penalty inflicting that themselves conld not sus- 
tain, 

Traces, generous and heroic, of their memories remain : 

Treason never shook their fabric, steadfast in the roar- 
ing floods ; 

Usurpation never menaced the republic of the woods. 

Faithful to their nation's promise, whether given to friend 

or foe, 
Reverent to their great departed, in the battle stricken 

low. 
Loyal to the light within them and wild nature's simple 

law. 
Round their capitol they crumble, to the last, the Iriquoi. 

Merciless in their revenges, mighty in their conquering 

lust. 
Holding God's new world for pasture, for the coming Man 

in trust. 
Still they leave to us the lesson, truer, clearer, every hour. 
That in counsel there is wisdom, and in union there is 



power 



116 FOEMS. 



SWEDES AND FINNS. 

Wno turn the capes of De La Warr, 
And sail within the shifting bar, 

Know not perchance wliat round them look ; 
Quaint feudal namesakes, lost or gray, 
And quainter people passed away, 
Which to recall would be a day 

Spent over many a mouldy book. 

Soft be the meadows far within 
The sandy beaches, low and thin, 

With frequent fens and creeks between ; 
No mountain backs the inland lift, 
The sandy islands blow and shift, 
And shining white, broad inlets rift 

The mighty marshes, gold and green. 

Yon Jersej^ spit is Jutland quite. 
That tapers downward to the light 

Which never burned for Captain Me}'- ; 
Hindlopen is a Friesland ghost, 
To thrill the cruising Dutcliraan most, 
Who wonders if it be the coast 

Of Zuj^der, whence he sailed away. 

Bej'ond the beaches level lie 
The fertile farm-lands to the sky ; 



POEMS. 117 

To shallow lakes the streams expand ; 
The twilights they outshine tlie stars, 
So streaked is heaven with golden bars ; 
The nights are beautiful as Thor's, 

Seen in the pleasant Swedish land. 



And up the river as we ride, 

Borne on the slow and equal tide, — 

So high we look down on the flocks, — 
By many a hook and dyke we slip, 
By many a sober-sided ship. 
By many a willowy islet's strip. 

Set round with emerald splatterdocks. 



Through lilies and through cat-tails creep 
The ooz}' creeks, by tides made deep, 

And all the marshes round about 
Are populous with birds that sing, 
Atop the reeds all day they swing. 
So fat at last they scarce can cling, 

And at the gunner nod and flout. 



Is it a Summer land of Thor? 
A new Batavia, mistless ? Or 

Is it that dream, half manifest. 
Which made the grand Gustavus burn, 
To hear his faithful Oxenstiern, 
For fair Christina's dowr}', yearn 

To plant an empire in the West? 



118 POEMS. 

Yea ! with the Kaiser at his feet, 
From Leipsic's fight this King of Sleet 

Turned his high face, so sanguine fair, 
Across the seas by Swedes untried ; 
And with a soldier's thrill of pride, 
He saw his royal banner ride 

The sluices of the Delaware. 



Still be their hamlets unforsook 

From Maurice Cove to Maerty's Hook, 

From Pennypack to Tinicum ; 
Still stands their kirk at Wicaco ; 
T. iJp'.ai.at School the urchins go ; 
And in Christina's graveyard grow 

Their ivies round the porches dumb. 

Here for the otter set his trap 
The Dalecarlian, and the Lapp 

Chafed for his reindeer and his fur, 
The tough Finn cast his nets for shad ; 
Dreamed of his peaks the Norway lad. 
And thinking of his sweetheart sad, 

He pined for Fatherland and her. 

The conquering Saxon overtook 

And swallowed quite this Gothic brook, 

As breaks the North Sea o'er the dunes, 
As Gothland abbeys crack to frost ; 
To Papist wiles the Queen was lost ; 
And by the English epic crost 

Faint grew these Scandinavian runes. 



POEMS. 119 



No more we hear their pleasant speech, 
But in the red-leaved groves of peach, 

How many a Jersey swain, belike, 
The while he shakes the velvet fruit 
On the green melons at his foot, 
Says, " Into Lutzen's tough pursuit 

My fathers bore the Swedish pike ! " 



Or, where the ripened plains of grain. 
Blow twixt deep gullies, worn by rain, 

How many a rustic reaps, aware 
His fathers' graves were old before 
The Quaker landed on their shore, 
And from the papist Baltimore 

They saved the banks of Delaware. 

Their old names, writ in English ways, 
In English praN'ers their Swedish pi*aise. 

The early tale is vague indeed ; 
They do no more their pastors draw 
From the pui'e schools of Upsala, 
But keep the stature, tall and braw, 

And florid visage of the Swede. 

Not wholl}^ is their race forgot 
In graver Dutch or Huguenot ; 

The simplest, sweetest of our broods. 
The softest river of our clime. 
Their valor hallowed for all time. 
And conquered, like a quiet rhyme 

Their memory lulls our solitudes. 



120 POEMS. 

We bear it where the bean-vine opes 
Its pods upon the cantelopes, 

And on the sweet-potato hills ; 
It murmurs in the files of maize, 
And where the striped heifers graze 
Along the brinks of brackish bays, 

And b}' the willow-planted rills. 

It sayeth : '' See ! on ever}' hand, 
In frequent fiord and pasture land, 

In long gra}' lakes the mills that spin, 
These pastoral plains as pleasant are, 
And innocent of crime or war. 
As, lighted by the Northern Star, 

The Kingdom of the Swede and Finn ! " 



POEMS. 121 



GALILEO'S RECANTATION. 

Yea ! holy men, how should I see 

What from his vicar Christ has hidden? 

Or speak the raightj' truth unbidden? 
I crave j'our mercies on my knee ! 

Ye wise and pious, to and fro 
Pra3'ed, everv da}', with downcast faces ; 

While I, some mite of God to know, 
Peered up amid his shining places ! 

From earth my soul strayed lone and far, 
Till, lost amidst the dark profound, 

Light darted like a meteor star : 
"The world goes round ! the world goes round ! " 



I am no priest, all near and far know, — 

Though such alone are shrewd, ye chide me, — 
Deep in jour cloisters I should hide me, 

And break xny tower in Val d'Arno. 
I only found the world so dark 

That holiness itself was groping ; 
I onl}' brought my feeble spark 

To light the tapers of its hoping ; 

Forward to move God's ark I sought ; 

Perhaps mj' rashness to confound. 
He struck me with a living thought : 

" The world afoes round ! the world goes round ! " 



122 POEMS. 

Yea ! we are worms of vision human, 

And Heaven all wise doth interpose ; 

Ye keep our Bible chained so close 
Still might a glowworm it illumine. 

No creeds the morning stars resist, 
Which sang earth's birth, and wise men bent 

To seek the child evangelist. 
Mj^ cloister is the firmament ! 

In burning stars my glass I dip, 
And this new dispensation found 

Writ up, in fier}'' manuscript : 
" The world goes round ! the world goes round ! ' 

Yea ! I recant. These hairs are gra}', 

And these old limbs have passed the pines 
That ridge the snowy Apennines, — 

The winds beat fiercely on my way ; 
Still at 3^our bar I find no ruth. 

But, with this secret, can I die ? 
Dare I, anointed with this truth. 

Look back to God and speak this lie? 
Though here my manhood I unsa}', 

This curse the ages shall resound : 
Hence shall the Church stand still alway : 

" The world go round ! the world go round ! " 



POEMS. 123 



AMERICA THE HUNTER. 

Weary with Wisdom, Asia, the nged, 

Turns from his proverbs to lie with his wives ; 
Foundling of continents, Afric, the Savage, 

Hopes for the Kinsman that never arrives ; 
Still in the prime of his manhood and riches, 

Europe, the Merchant, grows haggard and bent, 
A sceptic beneath his splendor of temples, 

A soldier that thrills 'twixt a book and a tent. 

Over the deep comes the crack of the rifle : 
The hunter, America, leans on the sun ; 

Warm on his shoulder the dawn breaks in glory- 
When o'er the world liesides dajdight is done ; 

Straight as the piue-shaft, strong as the river. 
Trampling a forest, a peak, at a stride. 

Green leap the farmlands under his shadow, — 
A sea for his mother, — a sea for his bride ! 

Past him the seasons, in wond'rous procession, 

Hurry in stately and magic contrast ; 
Fz'osts inperceptibly soften to blossoms. 

Music and odors glide into the blast ; 
Down bend the orchards to lust in the grain beard, 

Scorching the sunset the autumn woods glow. 
Spirits of motion glide out of the river. 

And a bell in each flake waltzes down with the snow. 



124 POEMS. 

Art stands in awe of the giant its model, 

Restless with power, bronzed and bare, 
Proudly exhaling the breath of the cataract. 

Tangles of wilderness black in his hair ; 
Girdled around him, like pearls and like sapphires, 

Blue lakes, tinted mountains, droop many a-fold, — 
Strong in his arteries rivers are gushing ; 

The A^eins in his feet are of silver and gold ; 
The light of his e3'e is the fire of his forges, 

Steadily glaring, in anger or sport ; 
The rifles he loves are the straight-grooved highways, 

That carry an army in every report ! 



Still, in his belt where the hunting-knives glisten, 

A crayon, a chisel, a st^dus, he strings ; 
Hewing conceptions bold and original 

The mocking-bird dies at his feet as he sings ! 
Then to his hounds, and the eagles, his falcons. 

He whistles : " The game o'er the sea 3'ou ma}'- seek ! " 
Swimming their baj'^ is the roar of the cannon. 

And shrill as its shell is the scream from their beak. 



Frequent, at eve, when his trophies are counted. 

Mild and reflective, he glances within. 
Saying : " O heart, thou hast passions unworthy, 

Seeds of remorse, and traditions of sin, — 
Purge them away ! though thy blood be the loser. 

It is thy elder, my soul, that exclaims. 
Better a ball in us both from my rifle, 

Than truce with diseases or treaties with shames ! 



POEMS. 125 

Vanish the panther and savage before him, — 

The Nimrod of Nations, the Prophets record, — 
Mightest hunter of t3-rants and traitors, 

That rides down the globe in the face of the Lord ! 
Phicked from the dawn ere the stars liad all faded. 

His banner of sunrise, but newl}' unfurled, 
Pinned to his rifle, shall compass, unaided, 

The freedom of man, and the tour of the world 1 



SALVATOR ROSA. 

O Master ! with a spirit born at war. 
And battles on thy pallet, in thy sight 
A bird am I, that hovers o'er the fight. 

And fears to bear it to her brood afar. 

Mild in the heaven basks the harvest star, 
And the old ruin with a placid face 
Feels not the howling fury at its base, 

Where horse and foot inextricable are ; 
And the surrounding mountains interlace, 

Like the white limbs of girls, undraped in sleep. 

O'er which inflamed clouds, like dragons creep, 

Blown smokily from burning ship and spar; 
Still in her dream to shrink all nature seems. 
As if she heard the roar of battle in her dreams. 



126 POEMS. 



NEVER LET. 

Ten paces from mj^ gate 
I see it, when the late, 

Late shadows muster. 
And all the tints of day . 
Are dismal black and gray, 

And of them all it is the blackest cluster. 

Two grand old chestnuts tower 
Above it, and embower 

This hutted wizard ; 
Its casements all are shut, — 
The tenants of the hut 

The bat by night, by day the glinted lizard. 

The children, checked in fun. 
Go past it at a run ; 

The maids are wonted 
To thrill, that the}' must hie 
To the cool well near by 

The evil shadows of the house so haunted. 

What spectres curses it so 
None of my neighbors know — 

None buy or bide it ; 
Its fruit the urchins pass, 
The kine refuse its grass — 

So rank, so long, as if a grave to hide it. 



POEMS. 127 

The bay is close before ; 
The surf avoids its shore ; 

Abruptly wheeling 
The white ships veer afar, 
The white sharks frightened are, 

As if the v,-holc round world partook its feeling. 

I pity while I hate 
This house, so desolate ; 

Some lives resemble 
Its spent and ruined cheer — 
Not aged, but yet sere, 

At whose wan presence we must hush and tremble. 

Perhaps some sort of good 
It does my neighborhood — 

Its moss begetting 
A reverence for gray hairs, 
A dread of wicked snares 

That curse the heart, beyond all life's forgetting. 



128 FOE MS. 



BORN ON CHRISTMAS. 

In life's first-won repose, 
Its tired eyes folded close, 

My new-born baby's breath, 
Like a memorial rose 

Blows on the breast of death. 



My pains, my fears are past, 
My burden falls at last, 

It lives though I am spent ; 
My heart is failing fast — 

M3" God ! I am content, — 



That though my love be done 
Crowned by this little one — 

To life 'tis ushered in 
The same day with Thy Son, 

Although conceived in sin ! 



Not in the Manger laid. 
By that poor, blushing maid 

Who knew not of Thy kiss, 
And travailed afraid, 

In unexpected bliss, — 



POEMS. 129 

But in our nuptial place, 
Before its Father's face,* 

To whom, ere I depart, 
Dear God ! by Thy great grace, 

Glad as I gave my heart, — 

His child I give with this 
My 3'oung life in a kiss, 

As fond and chaste and sweet, — 
So that he give it his 

To make my gift complete. 

Though o'er this Christmas snow 
My soul, released, go. 

Thou, Lord ! who set a star 
Above thy babe, I know 

Wilt shine on mine afar ; 

Or, knowing raj^ desire. 

Wilt let me shine, Christ's sire ! 

My little one above. 
And guide, though I expire, 

Its footsteps with Thy love. 

Christ ! In Thy Kingdom may 

This twin heir of Thy day, • 

Rise, saved by Thy distress ; 
Be Thou the orphan's stay 

On Christmas, motherless. 

9 



130 POEMS, 



MIRACLE OF THE GARGOYLES 

If one /ro 111 Paris westward go, — 

As I have done in these same shoes, — 
Along the Yvette to Chevreuse, 

By Chateau Menul, and by Yeaux, 

The third day's sun the roofs will show 
Of Montfort market- town and church, 
Whose castle from its windy perch 

Guards all the rolling plains below. 

The donjon crumbles where it grew. 

By two green, ivied towers, or more ; 

One stalwart arch yet guards their door, 
Those cruel Dukes, with wives untrue ; 
But save the church, the town they knew 

No feature wears of its old face, 

About its sunnj' market-place. 
In winding route, or narrow 7'ue. 

The church it is an ancient pile, 

Bj' stained windows diml}^ lit, 

Whose dyes upon the paintings flit, 
And down the gravestones of the aisle ; 
No transepts from the nave defile. 

The stateh' nave, so high and strong. 

By buttresses sustained along ; 
Grotesque their Gargoyles writhe and smile. 



POEMS. 131 

Around the choir their heads tlio}' raise, 
• From God within to keep aloof, 

And bear the drippings from the roof, — 
The lacquej's of the house of praise ; 
Far up the dizz}' tower thej' gfize, 

And o'er the portal leer and twist, 

As if in agony to list 
The organ, chanting holy laj's. 

One burning da}^ in Montfort town 

I sought the freshness of the place, 

And felt its shadows on my face 
Like cooling music tremble down : 
The Gargoyles seemed so old and brown 

Like human shapes aparch in hell, 

That by and by some raindrops fell 
As if their fevered hearts to drown. 

Each shape to sing began straightway, 

As in some gratitude compelled 

To own its buried crimes of eld ; 
It was, no doubt, the rain alway 
So bubbling down wath moan and bray. 

But every carved pipe so chanted, 

That to my fancy, thrilled and haunted, 
Those rhj'mes the demons seemed to say : 

FIRST GARGOYLE. 

A holy priest I used to be, 

And man}' converts helped to win : 

A pure 3'oung virgin came to me. 
And I persuaded her to sin. 



132 POEMS, 

CHOKUS. 

Swell the refrain, slaves of the rain ! 

Confess, ye devils, with a dismal din : 
All are at fault under the vault 

Making the plaint of Original Sin ! 

SECOND GARGOYLE. 

That maid am I ; not by thy wile, — 

I yielded to another's art 
And leer amongst these shapes of guile 

Who broke a mother's pious heart. 

CHORUS. 

This be our plea : human are we, 

Ducts of the tempest singing as we grin ! 

Innocent be none under the sun, 
Vents every one of Original Sin. 

THIRD GARGOYLE. 

On this old grimy buttress seated 

Th}^ mother thirsts for shame confest : 

It was her faithful spouse she cheated, 
Albeit to death he held her blest. 

CHORUS. 

Cool in our throats pipe we the notes : 
Heirs of damnation all folks be kin ! 

Man is a trough, carrying off 

Rills from the cloud of Original Sin. 



POEMS. 133 



FOURXn GARGOYLE. 



Some architect's indignant whim 

Tiiat truant spouse beside thee places ; 

In childbirth's pangs thou laidst for him, 
He in another's warm embraces. 

CHORDS. 

Raise we the shout, gutter and spout : 
Art and depravity ever were twin ! 

Fondly they paint devil as saint, 

Carving the gargoyles of Primitive Sin. 



FIFTH GARGOYLE. 

Lo ! here himself that architect : 
A pious Bishop, old and hoary. 

To God alone this temple decked ; 
I laid each stone for my own glor}"- 

CHORUS. 

Sweet the belief! "of sinners the chief," 
Sa3'eth the Bishop,, exhorting within ; 

Gleefully we enter his plea 

Sermons in stone of Original Sin. 



SIXTH GARGOYLE. 

That Bishop's robes engraved, I wear ; 

Who served not God, but my own clique, 
And burned upon the market square, 

A good man for a heretic. 



134 POEMS. 



CHORUS. 



Turgid with dirt, thirsty we squirt 

Rain from the Kirk, over beard, over chin ; 

While we revel coolly, in hell 

All dance the jig of Original Sin. 



SEVENTH GARGOYLE. 



Here writhes that good man on the spire ; 

He cried reform, but meant reward ! 
And died a mart3T in the fire, 

To win renown from scribe and bard. 



CHORUS. 



Long troll the song, joyful and strong, 
Raised by Judieans in Bethlehem's inn ; 

While the new star glimmered afiir 

Roared they the stave of Original Sin ! 



EIGHTH GARGOYLE. 



Unto the moon they reverence raised, 
We scribes and poets tap the steeple 

We cared no whit for him we praised. 
But writ it all to rouse the people ! 



CHORUS. 



Silence the bell's peal with our j^ells ! 

Drown the great organ ere it begin ! 
Comfort be ours, drinking the showers 

That sprinkle the tongues of Original Sin. 



POEMS. 135 



NINTH GARGOYLE. 



Around the choir the people cling, 

In flesh or stone the church's minions ; 

"We laid upon the devil's wing, 

The siu that burdened our own pinions. 

CHORUS. 

Ever may this refrain be our bliss, 

Man to discourage the rhyme while we spin, — 

Hardening his pra3'er into despair : 

" Flow, soul ! down the groove of Original Sin ! " 



TENTH GARGOYLE. 

Sweet Eve I tempted to her fall. 

But wear to-day a contrite face ; 
Since Eden has been shut to all, 

I haunt the church, the next best place. 

CHORUS. 

Revels keep we, devils that we be. 

Joyous to see man grim as we grin ! 
'Twixt the birth and the flood not a soul was found good, 

And the troll of the ark was Original Sin ! 



136 POEMS. 



POE. 

QUIET folk, beside whose grate 
When ye life's daily history quit, 

And shuddering, wondering, nightly wait 
Upon the ghostly rhyme he writ, 

If one o'er-curious with you sit, 

Who breaks his cadence with a blame 
Because he left so sad a name, 

1 pray you say, " We may but scan 
The Poet only, for the Man 

Set not his frailty up for fame," 

I pray you say, " We may but see, — 
So thrilled in this that we rehearse, — 

How equally God's mystery 

Shows in the poet and the verse : 

The dazzling lightnings of His curse 
Seem these rapt utterings we meet, 
That struck the singer at His feet ; 

Yet holier he who sang so well, 

Inspired b}^ heaven while half in hell, 
Than we who pit}' and repeat ! " 

Too well we know the story dark, — 
As some forgotten ingrate saith, — 

How in his right hand God's fresh spark, 
He blew it into baneful breath. 

And reeled to rude and dreadful death ; 

8 



roEMs. 137 

Perverse past motive or repress, 

Returning slander for caress, 
Tlie midniglit hawks no wilder fly. 
Nor more inimitably cr3' 

Tlieir low, despairing tenderness. 

Still, like a cunning alchemist 

Proportioning each precious bar, — 
He polished ever}- ameth3'st 

And every golden metaphor. 
While dreamily from star to star 

His dark-eyed soul climbs wandering so, 

Deep in the world his snared feet go, — 
As on the cloudy palace-top 
God's Psalmist's plumed pinions drop 

To see Bathsheba nude below. 

Ingrate to Fame when fame grew high. 

Out of his need he richest gave, — 
When fortune's river-bed was dry 

Brought the best diamonds of the slave : 
Yet, to the grave, and past the grave, 

The love of women folloAved him. 

Forgiving wantonness and whim. 
And still, white-handed, lifts his fame 
Out of its stainedness and shame. 

With bright eyes pitiful and dim. 

Alway, baffled soul of mine ! 

On this enigma pondering long. 
The wrecks of singers bleached shine 

Far up the sounding stream of song ; 
As when some chorus, strange and strong. 



138 POEMS. 

We hear at eve in Florence march, 
And, pressing near, by flare of torch 
See, so sweet-voiced, some weeded monk, 
"With visage sorrowful and sunk, 
Glide throusrli the resonating arch. 



So the High Prophets go up mocked 

By good-wives' boys, who chide and carp ; 

Though to their notes the kingdoms rocked. 
And to their glory-stirring harp 

Men's souls charged up to Heaven's scarp. 
Past him, the waj^ward, stricken so, 
The wise and prudent wagging go, 

But o'er his ruin richly climbs 

The hiding ivy of his rhymes. 
To make atone for Edgar Poe. 



POEMS. 139 



THE STRASBOURG STORK. 

A PROEM. 

Sweet, aweary, come and chide me 
That so well the world belied me, 

Saj'ing that my wing was soft ; 
That no patient rule detained me, 
That no lowly toil restrained me 

To a sedentary croft. 

To the window come, rebuke me 
That 3'our trusting heart mistook me, 

That I made j'our dove's eyes dark ! 
Sa}^ your plumed bird of glory 
Proves a cold and migratory 

Creature, like the Strasbourg stork ! 

On the wind}^ chimney yonder, 
Perched, like the mountain condor, — 

In his hedgy nest of briars 
An unknown and hapless comer, 
He doth ponder all the summer, 

In the smoke of household fires. 

The cathedral steeple only, 
In its loftiness more lonely, 



140 POEMS. 

Feels the million thrilled ej^es ; 
But the deep and human city 
Looks, with strange and laughing pity, 

At the white stork in the skies ; 

Poised to catch all rising tattle 
On one long limb, red as battle, 

Gravely, ceaselessl_v awake ; 
When the bells of noonday flout him, 
When the stars are close about him, 

When the clouds in thunder break. 

And the fresh-haired peasant maiden, 
With her market roses laden. 

Coming into town at morn. 
Answers to her lover's fables : 
" Lo ! beyond the dizzy gables, 

See the poor stork, so forlorn ! 

" Hath it cleft the Northern winter, — 
Pilgrim to our mighty printer, 

From whose voice no tribes are hid ? 
Of the Southern sands a neighbor, 
Doth it seek the shrine of Kleber, 

Still in death a pyramid ? "* 

To 3'our beauteous roses drooping, 
Let me, dearest, gravely stooping, 

* Guttenburg, the inventor of printing, and General Kleber, were citizens of 

Strasbouror. 



POEMS. 141 

For the Strasbourg stork reply : 
" Yea ! of Guttenburg's poor scholars, 
Stained with Kleber's bloody colors, 

In this hostel perched so high, — 

" Bird of passage, coming, going, 
I am here to see the mowing 

Of the Rhenish summer grain ! 
When the reapers' work is over. 
And the stubble feels the clover, 

I shall homeward fly again." 

Homeward ! 'tis a rnerry story ! 
"We wild lovers, migrator}'. 

Ma}' not, will not, ever rest ! 
Birds of passage in our natures. 
Still we tempt soft, household creatures, 

To our wet and windy nest. 

Wrap them in our whirring legions. 
Lead them over sterile regions. 

Mate and brood — how fond they cling ! — 
Where the lightning splits the mountains, 
Where the ocean bursts its fountains, — 

Dreaming Home upon the wing ! 

Chide me, now, poor carrier pigeon — 
What! Caresses? Sweet Religion, 

Fold your dove's eyes, soft and dark ! 
On ra}^ torn, soiled plumes, reposing. 
Hear what dreams, in his high dozing, 

Came to your sad Strasbourg stork. 



142 POEMS 



THE DUELLING GROUND AT BLADENS- 
BURG. 

Like lines of hulks cast up a strand 

The ruined village silent bides, 
Its ancient piers and quays inland, 

Abandoned by the wonted tides ; 
A ford in sun, a flood in rain, 

The shrivelled river past it slips ; 
And never maj'^ return again 

The tall tobacco ships. 

Across the broken bridge no more 

The full and frequent stages roll, 
With planters set for Baltimore, 

Or statesmen for the Capitol ; 
About the town the dwellers stray. 

Like mourners waiting round a hearse, 
And some old men, down looking say : 

" ' Tis stricken by a curse ! " 

Beyond the ford the spot of bode 

They show, with many a hearsay tale, — 
A brook that flows beneath the road. 

And, winding through a level vale, 
Gives suck and sap to copses rank. 

To coves of marsh and capes of brake, 
And hidden in its tangles dank 

Abides the water-snake. 



I' OR .us. 143 

At gray of dawn, as past the creek 

The startled negro drives his wain, 
Loud voices pierce llie foliage tliick. 

And sounds of shot, and cries of pain ; 
Small time he tarries when he lists. 

But flies before those flends of sound : 
The spirits of the duellists, 

Who haunt the bloody ground. 

Of quiet noons, in thoughtful awe, 

The rambling student comes, to see 
Where Pride held higher court than Law, 

And fools, by crime, sought dignity ; 
Where, hidden in this fen of fir, 

Weak Honor stood in hazard's van. 
Content to be a murderer. 

To prove himself a man. 

By edicts blind as they who fought 

Across the verdure of this bar. 
See Love to Treachery's footstool brouuht. 

And fortune won aye lost in war ; 
In private feud stand they who rein 

The fleets of freedom to their will. 
The captains of the bounding main 

Contending o'er a rill. 

These laid their errors down with life, 

Eank grows the grass their blood to hide ; 

But they who fed the fires of strife. 
And carried taunts to kindled pride, 



144 POEMS. 

Live, like the vipers undercurled, 

Which liiss and creep beneath this fen, 

And to contention sting the world, 
And turn to murderers men ! 



BARTHOLEMEW CLOSE. 

Here, where the noblest of all sonneteers, — 
His life a sonnet, substance of all song, — 
In blindness beautiful la^' hidden long, 

"Waiting the ripe return of God's right years, 

Be3'^ond the common sympathy of tears 
I feel drawn to him in this nook obscure, 
Wherein he made captivity so pure. 

And in the nearness of pursuing spears, 
Built the high epic which shall aye endure ! 

Crowned to Freedom with a Tyrant's price 
Set on his head, in its majestic plan 

His country lost, brought to his grieved eyes 
The grander theme of Eden lost to man, 

And made this nook the pulse of Paradise. 



POEMS. 145 



THE CORNICHE ROAD. 



Day breaks : Mount ! The nags are set ; 

We are three in the high banquette; 

To his halloo, strong and shrill, 

The driver's ear-rings flash and trill : 

Six in hand, the manes of each 

Stiffen, beneath his stinging i*each ; 

Into their terror the grim guard pours 

The burst of his bugle, and out of the doors 

Of lofty palace and staircase hoar, 

Car^'atide and statue roar ; 

Market-women and piemen quake ; 

Maccaroni and chestnuts shake : 

Opens the Strada before the rack. 

As if the king, with the mail on his back, 

Thundered the riot-act, clearing the way 

Out of the sates of Genoa. 



Creaking under the bastions deep, 
Up to the lighthouse steep we creep ; 
Unto us, lo ! the city unrolls. 
Masts and mountains, pinnacles, moles, — 
O ray mother, far in the "West, 
Oft have j'ou told me, wrapped to your breast, 
10 



146 POEMS. 

How the cit}^ of God is gilt ; 
Would this glimpse 3'ou shared with me, 

His tabernacle, wondrous built 
Twixt the mellow peak and sea. 
Like a crescent, bright and new, 
Hung on a horizon blue. 
Soft aloft the sails, like stars. 
Climb between its silver bars, 
A gem in either horn aglow 
And a halo in its bow. 

Down the slopes, to groaning brakes, 
We turn the windy Voltri's capes. 
Bridge the torrent with a leap. 
And the horned Piedmont sheep 
Plunge into the sea to hide them, 
And the swarthy shepherd cowers 
In a mountain niche beside them ; 
In his peaked hat the flowers 
Purple, on the granite mosses — 
Huy ! before 3'our wayside crosses 
Girls with babies clear the way. 
And the cheery bugles play 
Garibaldi's hymn, adown 
The streets of Cogoleto town, 
Where, its harnesser to be. 
First Columbus saw the sea. 

Oft as now, midst lads and hags, 
When the coachmen changed their nags, 
And the laden stages halted, 
For the sous he somersaulted. 



POEMS. 147 

With his yellow ankles bare, 
"While his sire, in velvet jacket, 
Black-ej'ed, watched the urchin's racket 

Underneath his tawny hair ; 
"Where the boats lie on the beach, 
He heard the ancient fishers preach 
Of isles where spic}' storms do brew. 
And out of his soul, he blew 
A thought, that filled his shallop's sail 
Fuller than a might}^ gale, 
Till his trinity of ships 
Burst beyond the sun's eclipse ! 

Gallop ! through Savona's din, 
"Where Chiabrera's sonnets win 
Praise, past Albrecht Durer's glory 
Hung in the cathedral hoary ; 
Till our horn on Vndo's heights 
Shakes its grotto's stalactites, 
And we reach the plain of palms 
That ripen in the golden calms 
Among the orange orchards dying, 
"Where low olive groves are sighing, 
And the Indian maize is green. 
Till Loano looks serene 
As ere the Saxon burst its fountains 
"When Massena leaped the mountains, 
Or the Moor tore from the valley 
The virgin girls of Cereale. 

Now the sun is melting through 
The Mediterranean's zone of blue, 



148 . POEMS. 

A diamond down a bosom slipping ; 

Fades the far strange heathen shipping ; 

The gray moon, rambling down the peaks, 

Into Oneglia's tower creeps, 

And in the niglit tlie neighbors wordy 

Gather around tlie Imrdy-gurdy, 

Where sweet San Rcmo's cliurcli-bells fall ; 

And black beneath the Alpine wall 

Where Ventimiglia's hostel srcoulders, 

Lean out the rare bare necks and shoulders 

Of the Ligurian wives, aroused, 

With their tall sailor spouses housed ; 

Till o'er Mentone's torrent dance 

The lamps of Italy and France. 



Sunny lands and manl}^ races ! — 

IIo ! nags, upward ! scale the cliffs ! — 
Clad in peace with playful faces, 

Grimmer in wartlian hippogriffs. 
Treading now old Roman ways, 
" Bugler, dare j'ou in Savoy 
Wind the rousing INIarsellaise ? — 

Tliat which thrilled the fisher-bo}'', 
When, lifting his young arm of brawn, 

He swore mankind's release to seek, 

And from Turbia's giddy peak. 
He saw Monaco glide from dawn?" 

No ! lest Monaco's gamblers flee. 
And rail at Cajsar's bloody peace, 

Freedom's high song is felon}'. 
And Garibaldi far from Nice. 



POEMS. 149 

Oh ! silver path among the stars ! 
Oh ! midworld road by easj'^ stages ! 
Three thousand o'er-ripc human ages 
Have spangled thee with arts and wars ; 
Lost on thy granite scarp the scars, 
But in the air, the sea, the river, 
Their sacrifices live forever. 

Blow, bugler ! though the kingdoms crack ; 
Better the sea should sink the sky 
Thau one true note of freedom die. 
The eagles on the headlands wake ; 
Song makes cheery the whip, the brake ; 
Steam already the mountain seams ; 
Freedom's path is surer than steam's. 

Lo ! down the gorges leaps the day ; 
Storm gathers on the Cornich6 way. 



150 POEMS. 



AMERICAN AUTUMN. 

Cold green, the grasses on our rocks 

That all the summer grew, — 
Scarce frosted hj the grazing flocks, 

Backed by bare skies of blue, — 
Climbed over woodlands dark angrave, 

And creeks that screamed for sun, 
And scarce!}' felt the twilights fall, 

The daylights were so dun. 

But when imperious Autumn came, 

He stamped his foot for ire, 
The forests leaped at once to flame. 

He set the hills afire. 
The frigid firs that -would not burn. 

Scorched by red coals of leaves, 
"Were hidden in the orchard's bronze 

And in the smouldering sheaves. 

Out of the world the chill}^ grays 

From stones and streams depart ; 
Bright bars of light search out the ways 

That thread the forest's heart ; 
And scarlet sails tack up the rills. 

O'er shoals set thick with gems. 
Or, wrecked adown the dams of mills. 

Drown all their diadems. 



roEMs. 151 

Hot in their nestj- burs, the nuts 

Drop into brindled springs ; 
Upon their sweets the squirrel gluts, 

As on some vine he swings, 
Whose wild grapes, withered where they hang, 

Or blown down by the gale, 
The shy, plush robins come to pick, 

Or coveys of the quail. 



All splend'rous the old oaks are met 

In wondrous savage state ; 
The white-limbed poplars turn brunette. 

The maples aureate ; 
O'erhead the buxom beeches glow. 

Like some ripe maid, to find 
The name her swain had cut below 

Deep in the tawny rind. 

And, plump, the brazen pippins ring 

The pumpkin's copper rim. 
Down come the rattling hops, where sing 

The gatherers, brown and slim. 
Between the whiles when cross the hill 

The}' hear the hunter's horn 
Ride down the red flight of the fox, 

Among the shocks of corn. 

Along the high, white, turnpike way. 

The truant boys from town 
Steal past the teams of laden hay 

To hunt for walnuts brown ; 



152 POEMS. 

And vagrant gunners, sauntering, haunt 
The taverns quaint and queer, 

To count their rabbits on tlie bar. 
Between their mugs of beer. 

Then to his kisty breast, a bride, 

Soft in her haz}^ veil, 
The Indian Summer, azure-ej'ed. 

Weds Autumn, tanned and hale ; 
Her breath is like the mist of dews, 

Sweet passion in her kiss. 
And hid in her transparent blues 

A sense of distances. 

All dreamy, now, the waters hide 

The burning sumach beads. 
And mellower the barges glide 

Among the river reeds ; 
Alone young girls down woodpaths go, 

In sadness near to tears. 
And forms and feelings lie enwrapt 

In pensive atmospheres. 

A little while the sanguine world, 

In so soft honeymoon. 
Feels twilight's chastest tenderness. 

And balms of dawn at noon. 
Then rise the gusty winds ; the leaves 

Race, fugitive and lost. 
Till gaunt the landscapes, desolate, 

Look in the teeth of frost. 



P OEMS. 153 



BUCCANEER BOOKS. 

Come from jour shelf this midnight, 3'e chronicles of crime, 
And rouse me from my ennui as in that truant time, 
When I lay in the barn with Bill Everett, and we read with 

fluttering fears 
A foretaste of the period when we should be buccaneers ! 

Ah ! thrilling to-night their terrors as when the recital 

began : 
The stories of ^squemeling, and Ravenau de Lussan ; 
To Charlevoix's description the firelight shadows leap 

queer, 
And we run to sea with a bundle to ship for a cruise with 

Dampier. 

Once more we have left Tortuga, and wait witli our swift 
carrack 

To wajday a silver galleon, or put a city to sack ; 

Our smoked boucan in our satchel, our cutlasses in our 
sash. 

And the best of Cherbourg powder waxed tight in a cala- 
bash. 

Our belts are stuck full of pistols ; our muskets are sure to 

bite 
(As we to behold a pirate crept under our bed to-night) ; 



154 TOE MS. 

We have sworn to be camarados, and to keep the compact 
true, 

"When I am chief of the Spanish Main, and you have con- 
quered Peru. 



Oh ! wild is our joy when the treasure fleet the Spanish 

ensign dips, 
And we have moved the golden bars aboard our victor 

ships. 
The rich robes of the old grandees our blood-stained blouses 

hide, 
And from the clutches of the priests each of us wins a 

bride. 



These tales my playmate revived, retain their ancient 

power 
To start the heart to beating, and to trouble the midnight 

hour ; 
And our lives have been eventful as the vagrant wishes of 

boys. 
To join the band of Morgan, or muster with Lolonnois. 



You have fought in the rebel army, and plucked from the 

rout 5' our bride ; 
I have heard the howl of the dying from the camps of the 

other side ; 
We have learned the familiar motion of the vessel on the 

sea, 
And beheld our mother Chesapeake convulsed like the 

Caribbee. 



POEMS. 155 

The Buccaneer's flag, ray schoolmate, shall never be struck 

nor furled ! 
No race, no creed, shall monopolize the bequest of this rich 

new world ! 
Man will break your narrow titles, though ye bind them 

fast with forts. 
And with his daring captains burst through your gates and 

ports. 

In vain shall ye saj^ to the rovers of Europe and Cathay : 
"Our charter, it is exclusive; we warn your merchants 

away. 
They come with the older charters of numbers, of need, and 

of art. 
To engage with 3'ou on the ocean, and compete with you in 

the mart." 

Throw down your paper barriers, and admit them undis- 
mayed. 

Hail ! fair and equal freedom of labor and of trade. 

That the weak shall grow the stronger by the mingling 
shall be seen. 

For the stronger is aye the generous, the perishing is the 
mean ! 



156 POEMS. 



GARIBALDI, GAUCHO. 

Grim in his laurels asleep, 

Lay the apostate Guelf, 
Dante, to whom Christ died 

But for his song and himself; 
Waiting for Christ's return 
To make his enemies burn. 

Under his broad sombrero, 

Like a shaded lamp, 
The smile of Garabaldi, 

Riding out from his camp, 
O'erflaraed his waving plume, 
Over the poet's tomb. 

All in Ravenna saw him 

Reverent bow and long, 
Italy's swoi'd, saluting 

Her venerated song : 
There the singer austere. 
Here the singer of cheer. 

Forth to his daring epic, 

"Writ in scorching lines, 
The horseman of the pampas. 

From the crest of the Apennines, 
Looked aglow on his theme : 
Rome, the beloved of his dream. 



POEMS. 157 



Rome, bis Beatrice beauteous, 

Mistress of bis steel ; 
Liberty, like bis Virgil, 

Beckoned bim clown to reveal 
Tbe griefs tbat it befell, 
Its beaven, hades, bell. 



Fortb to tbe Pincian portal, 
Rome all roused, ran, 

As if to tbe invocation 
Of some barbarian : 

Alaric's impious nod. 

Or Attila, scourge of God. 



Lay bis lance and lasso 

At bis saddle bow ; 
Red liis sbirt and poncbo ; 

Tbe wild bairs bearded blow 
From bis scorcbed face, 
So ligbted witb sweet grace. 



Fu-mly be grasps in bis fingers 

A wbip of buffalo bide ; 
Red bis banderolle flutters 

From tbe negro's lance at bis side ; 
His broad plumed bat is tanned 
In suns of a beatben land. 



158 POEMS. 

Firmly he strode his stallion, 
Statue-like, antique ; 

Wild his garb as a Thracian ; 
Pure his face as a Greek ; 

" A brigand 'tis," say some. 

Some say : " a saint is come ! 



BARUCH SPINOSA. 

Here, in thy people's quarter, while I wait. 
Thou other Moses ! thorough traffic's hum 
I hear God's later voice persuasive come : 

" Let there be light ! — light on thine own estate, 

"Where doubt and darkness of thy place and fate 
Lie, o'er the chaos of the world's wide lore. 
Thyself am I, and shall be evermore, — 

Never henceforth to banish or create. 
For when great nature I conceived, see ! 
No nobler edifice e'en God could hew ; 

Therefore my separate self incorporate 
In it inseparably, cries to thee : 
O Man, be Godlike ! whether Greek or Jew, 
And to Thyself kneel by the Zuyder Zee ! " 



POEMS. 159 



/ 



MY RHYMES. 

They were not grand, I knew ; 

As when I writ thera I do feel them still ; 
They were but idle pictures that I drew 

And shaped to measure with a weary quill ; 
Yet their crude fancies pleased me when alone 
I conned them over, feeling them my own. 

They went with me abroad. 

And kept pace with my footsteps over miles, — 
Familiar as the homely hymns to God 

That thrilled my childhood in the old church aisles ; 
Old places they revived, and awoke 
Forgotten memories of forgotten folk. 

I marvelled that so oft 

The Muses would appear to my poor ken ; 
And hope on daring pinions went aloft, 

To hear my ditties on the lips of men ; 
To go, gray-haired, where girls and children stray. 
Lulled by the melodies of my young day. 

I lay sick and aweary, 

And the soft voices of my kind grew trite ; 
But my poor rhymes came, comforting and cheery, 

To keep me company b}^ noon or night ; 
Tho}' were like hope and health returned again, 
Or glimpses of green meadows down the lane. 
10 



160 POEMS. 

Alack ! that these boy's rhymes 

Be all I bring, in pearly waters diving ! 

The manlier themes, laid up in various climes, 
Put off and oflE" for seasons ne'er arriving 

Wait hungering for form till perished quite. 

And I must write for life, — not for delight. 



Dear, far, convenient day, 

With bread and heart, and love and work concui-ring ! 
Shut in thy narrow library away 

Sweet Death ! be Thou this patron to us erring 
Janglers of rh5'me : to scan while silence lingers 
Till Heaven's high theme bursts in and all are singers. 



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